The Highwayman
by LadyVic
Summary: When a highwayman returns to the scene of his betrayal the Winchesters become entangled in a web of lies stretching over two centuries, and are caught in the middle as past and present collide. Takes place in S1, directly after Provenance.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: When a highwayman returns to the scene of his betrayal the Winchesters become entangled in a web of lies stretching over two centuries, and they are caught in the middle as past and present collide. Takes place in S1, directly after _Provenance_.

**A/N:** This story is loosely based on Alfred Noyes' poem _The Highwayman_, which I fell in love with as a direct result of the Loreena McKennitt song of the same name. I hope you like it.

This story is set a couple of months after _Hozho_, although it is totally unnecessary to read that first. And to everyone who reviewed the end of _Hozho_, life became a bit nuts for a while giving me no chance to reply. Please know that I treasured each and every comment I received. And I cried over some of them. Yeah, I'm a sap like that. LOL And I am going to be sending out replies. They're just a leeeetle late. LOL

To Vanessa at SFTCOL(AR)S…was this kind of what you were looking for in that prompt? And Jenilee, once again thank you for letting me experiment on you.

**Warning:** The boys talk like men who live a tough life and were raised by a marine. In other words, they curse.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story.

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**The Highwayman Chapter 1**

"Oh, Frank, look how pretty!" Rachel MacDougal leaned her head back against the padded headrest with a small sigh. Moonlight tipped the tall grass covering the field next to them in waves of silver as it rippled in a soft breeze. The moon itself had just cleared the dark line of trees edging the far end of the field, and it looked huge and luminous in comparison to those dark, earthbound forms.

Rachel's husband gave her a soft smile. "It'll be full in a couple of days. Should really be something to see then." The familiar warmth flooded through him when she returned his smile. After ten years of marriage, she still had that effect on him. He turned his attention back to the black ribbon of roadway in front of them as the field fell away and trees edged closer to the sides of the blacktop. They started into a series of curves, winding up and down gentle hills, and Frank slowed the car, flipping on the high beams.

"Watch the deer," Rachel warned calmly, pointing to the edge of the trees in front of them.

A large six point buck was perched with its front hoofs on the blacktop, its eyes reflecting the headlights back at them as they approached. Frank slowed the car to a crawl and then brought it to a complete stop when the deer walked gracefully onto the road, still watching them. It stopped near the center line and Rachel gave a delighted gasp when other deer came hesitantly out of the woods. They crossed the paved expanse with small mincing steps, keeping the buck between them and the car.

Frank reached out and covered his wife's small hand with his own. The last of the deer disappeared into the woods on the far side of the road and the buck's stance relaxed slightly. It lowered its head and followed its charges into the trees, moving slowly and majestically.

"Wow," he breathed out softly. He gave Rachel's hand one last squeeze before he returned his hand to the wheel and eased his foot down on the gas pedal. They had driven the road enough times over the last few days to know that it would soon straighten out and the woods would give way to fields on either side. He pressed a little harder on the gas as they came out of the last curve, eager now to get back to the inn. "How about a nice—What the Hell?!"

The figure in front of them had appeared in the blink of an eye. Frank twisted the wheel to the right as his foot slammed down on the brake pedal. The car began to skid, the acrid smell of burning rubber filling the night around them as the tires left harsh black streaks across the pavement. The front of the car hit a solid maple with a sickening crunch and Frank again grabbed for his wife's hand, enveloping it in his own just before the air bag exploded in front of his face and things went black.

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Dean worked two fingers down into the space between his collar and the chafed skin on his neck and slid them back and forth, pulling at the offending material with a grimace.

The urge was strong, but Sam managed to restrain himself from slapping at Dean's hand, opting to jab him in the side with his elbow instead. "Dean! Cut it out!"

"Dude! This thing is strangling me!" Dean hissed. He gave his collar and the knot of his tie one last tug before dropping his hand to his side with a scowl.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the door in front of him, ignoring the soft grumbles still emanating from his brother. It was already open a crack and swung the rest of the way at his gentle push. The brothers stepped into the hospital room, knocking on the door jamb to get the attention of the room's occupants. The room looked like it was ready for a party. Bunches of balloons bobbed in the corners and small plants and bouquets were lined up on the window sill. A huge fruit basket sitting on the table next to the bed dominated all of the other 'get well soon' displays.

A slightly plump woman with a mass of frizzy blonde curls was propped up in the bed. Her casted leg was resting on a pillow in front of her and a spectacular bruise spread beyond the edges of a white bandage on the side of her forehead. She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose and sat up a little straighter, smiling a welcome as they moved to the foot of her bed.

The large man sitting in the chair next to her rose at their entrance. He was built like an ex-football player, beefy arms and shoulders just starting to soften. The image was completed by his neat blonde crewcut. His left arm was secured in a navy blue sling and slight burns still graced his face from the airbag.

"Frank and Rachel MacDougal?" Sam asked politely. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean reaching into his jacket, ready to pull out an impressively legitimate looking and completely bogus police badge and ID.

Frank scowled at them and plopped back into the chair, deliberately out of reach of a handshake should either brother extend their hand. "I don't know why you two are here. It's like we told the other officers, our statements aren't going to change. Like it or not, we saw what we saw."

Sam reached his hand sideways and stilled Dean's movements before the badge case could clear the edge of the jacket. "We're not with the police," Sam said evenly. His eyes rested on the closed book on Rachel's lap and he smiled slightly. "My name is Sam Collins, and this is my brother Dean. We're both with the New England Paranormal Investigations Institute."

Rachel's eyes went wide. "I told you someone would listen to us," she directed at her husband. She turned back to the brothers with a smile. "He said everybody would think we were nuts and we should just tell them we swerved to avoid a deer."

Frank raised his eyes to the ceiling and then gave his wife a triumphant grin. "But she insisted we tell the truth. And now…everyone thinks we're nuts, and that we really just swerved to avoid a deer." The husband and wife looked at each other and began to laugh in unison. Frank pushed himself stiffly to his feet and reached his hand over the end of the bed, offering a belated handshake.

"You're not the first person to see something unusual along that stretch of road," Dean told them, shaking his head at the folly of the local authorities.

"See? I told you!" Rachel said, swatting at her husband's leg. She tapped the title of the book on her lap, Haunted Massachusetts. "Spirits don't just appear once. There's usually a pattern or something, right?" She looked to the two 'experts' at the foot of her bed for support.

"Usually," Sam agreed. "Can you tell us exactly what you saw before the accident?"

"There was a man on a horse, right in the middle of the road. One second he WASN'T there…and then…" Rachel gave a dramatic shiver.

"And then he WAS there," her husband finished.

"There's a lot of farms in the area. You're sure it wasn't just somebody out for a ride?" Dean questioned.

"Only if he was on his way to a costume party," Frank snorted. "He was dressed like some guy in colonial times, but kinda fancy. You know what I mean?"

"Maybe you could describe him to us," Sam prompted. "Any details you could give us would be helpful."

Frank eased himself back down in the chair. "He had on one of those triangle hats—"

"A tri-corner hat," Rachel chimed in. "And a red coat, not like a British soldier…this was a fancy coat, dark red, with lace coming out of the sleeves and lace at his throat." Her hand stroked the collar of her pajama top showing the placement of the lace. "And he had these tall boots, up to like…here." She made a chopping motion with the side of her hand, placing the top of the boots mid thigh. Her forehead wrinkled and she trailed off, looking at her husband. "What else?"

"The horse was a big bay," Frank added. "Silver on the bridle."

"That's a lot of detail," Sam said with a little nod. "There are no lights along that section of the road, are there?" He already knew there were no lights. He and Dean had scoped the scene of the accident out before coming to the hospital.

"We caught him full on with our headlights…and we were pretty close. The sight's kind of stuck in my brain. It was so real that the headlights actually reflected off of something silvery, like the top of a sword, around here." He pointed to his waist and Sam had to stifle a small laugh at how similar the couple's mannerisms were after years of marriage. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean's nose wrinkle. 'Cute' married couples tended to trigger his brother's gag reflex.

"I mean, at first I thought it was somebody just playing a trick on us, it looked so solid. That's why I swerved. But…he wasn't a real person." The big man reached for his wife's hand and Sam saw the muscles in his forearm bunch as he squeezed it. If Rachel's white knuckles were any indication, she was squeezing back…hard.

He exchanged a look with Dean and knew his brother had picked up on the same thing. "There's more, isn't there?" Dean asked.

Frank gave a little laugh that was devoid of humor. "I think this is the part that really makes us sound crazy. We didn't tell this to the police." He cleared his throat and continued in a softer voice. "We were too close by the time we saw him. I hit the brakes, but we skidded. We went right through where he and the horse were standing. If he was real it would have been bad. Real bad. But he just kind of blinked away. Know what I mean?" He waited for the boys to nod. "And there was just like this little puff of mist, or fog, or something, left." He glanced at Rachel and she gave a quick nod. Frank sighed but then continued.

"When we went through that spot it got real cold in the car. And then we both heard it. Heard him. Just a whisper, but crystal clear. He said 'Bess'."

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"Well, you are very very lucky indeed," the man behind the counter enthused as he accepted the charge card from Dean's hand.

"I don't think the MacDougal's would agree," Sam muttered into Dean's ear as the man turned away from them.

"Oh, goodness gracious! No, I certainly didn't mean to imply that that lovely couple's misfortune could be considered a good thing!" the man gasped as he twirled back towards them, his hands fluttering in the air.

Dean couldn't help smirking as he watched his brother turn an interesting shade of red. "No, sir, I didn't think that's what you meant," Sam said quickly.

"My, no! They are a lovely, lovely couple! I would never…I just meant that us having any room available right now is normally unheard of…" The man's eyes went wide and Dean swore they started to fill with tears. Dean had to run his hand over his face to hide a smile when Sam began to stammer apologies, trying to remove his foot from his mouth.

"I know that sir…I just meant…"

The man waved his hand through the air in front of his face, biting at his lip as he composed himself. "No, no, I understand." He gave Sam a tremulous smile. "No harm, no foul, as they say. Now let me just take care of this for you." He waved the card at them and then turned away with a sniff.

As soon as the man disappeared through the multi-paned office door behind the front desk Sam nudged Dean harshly with his shoulder. "Thanks for the help!" he hissed.

Dean turned to him, not bothering to hide his huge smile anymore. "Oh, you were doing pretty good on your own," he laughed. "And besides, YOU were the one who hurt his feelings."

Sam's glare softened and he shook his head, starting to laugh. "Bob there has watched a few too many episodes of Newhart," he said, referring to the man's bright blue cardigan and carefully coiffed high hairline. "The reports said ALL of the accident victims were guests here, right?" he finally asked.

"Yep," Dean confirmed. "The tavern can get busy, so there are other people going back and forth on that stretch of road at night, but the victims were all actually staying here."

Bob returned from the office and daintily place two old fashioned keys on the polished wooden surface between them. "Here we go. As I explained, the MacDougal's room was taken over by two charming gentlemen and it is their two singles that are available. They were positively thrilled when the MacDougal's double opened up." Bob leaned over the counter and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I believe they were hoping the trip would be a type of second honeymoon for them. So romantic!" Bob straightened back up and eyed the two hunters, his eyes going wide at a sudden thought. "Oh dear, I hope it's not too much of a disappointment that you two will be separated."

Dean felt his own face getting warm and it was his brother's turn to choke back a laugh. "No, I'm happy to get a break from my BROTHER. He snores like a banshee," Dean said quickly.

The man just smiled at him and Dean bit back a curse when his 'brother' leaned into him affectionately and graced the innkeeper with a shy smile. Bob's smile widened and he gave Dean a little wink. "Okay…brothers." He laid his hand on top off the keys. "6E is the last room upstairs in the east wing. 3 C is the back room upstairs in this original section of the inn."

"How old is the inn?" Sam asked.

"The original structure was built in 1760, and the two additions were added about fifty years later when the stagecoach line began to run by here. I think you'll be very pleased with your room in the east wing. Every room in that wing was recently renovated and they are just wonderful." 'Wonderful' came out as a sigh. "And this original portion of the building where 3C is…many of our guests just love how rustic…how positively authentic those rooms feel."

"Sam likes 'authentic', I wouldn't want to deprive him," Dean said as his hand shot out, snagging the key to 6E. "You said the east wing was recently renovated? How long ago was that? Is any work still being done in the building?" Dean leaned towards the wooden divide. "It doesn't bother me, but this one…" Dean hooked his thumb at Sam and rolled his eyes "positively has hissy fits if there's the least bit of uproar around him." He held in a grunt when Sam's foot stomped down on his own. The kid had managed to put some weight into it. Luckily Sam was in sneakers and they couldn't put much of a dent in Dean's boots.

Bob leaned forward. "Oh, I had a friend just like that once!" He waved his hand in front of his face. "SUCH a drama queen!"

This time Dean couldn't hold in a wince. Okay, he was wrong. When Sam stomped hard enough it hurt, no matter who was wearing what.

Bob frowned, his forehead creasing in thought. "The interior renovations were completed a couple of years ago, so no worries there. I am afraid the tavern can get a bit raucous at times, however, and 3 C is above the tavern." He looked at Sam, his face drawn into a worried pout. "These old walls are very thick, and we've never had any complaints about the noise…but if you're afraid it would be too upsetting…"

Sam reached out and picked up the key to 3 C. "I'm sure I'll be fine," he said through gritted teeth.

A large smile lit Bob's face and he scurried around to join them on their side of the front desk. "In that case, who's ready for the grand tour?" He stood between the brothers and looped his arms through theirs, swinging his head back and forth to look up at them with a smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes warmly. He only came up to their shoulders, but for some reason he seemed much bigger.

God help him, Dean would never admit it to Sam…but he was starting to kinda like the little guy.

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Bob chattered constantly during their brief tour, explaining different renovations that had taken place over the past two hundred years. The two-story 'east wing' had added sleeping quarters, supplementing the small number of rooms already available on the original tavern's second floor. The addition on the western end of the building was only a single story and contained just a few rooms, including a cozy library and a breakfast room. He glowed with pleasure when Sam asked him questions that showed he was not only interested in Bob's mini history lesson, but also had some rudimentary knowledge of the area's history and architecture.

Sam would have happily explored the floor to ceiling bookshelves in the library, but found his progress through the doorway blocked by Dean's wide shoulders.

"Dude! You can have your geek fest later. Right now let's just finish checking this place out," Dean whispered while Bob exchanged pleasantries with an elderly couple who appeared to have been swallowed whole by one of the room's luxuriously overstuffed couches.

Bob escorted them back into the front room where couches and a love seat were arranged in a generous sitting area in front of a large fireplace. Sam was willing to bet it shared the same chimney as the fireplace he had noticed in the library. He glanced over to the other side of the large front room. Another seating area was arrayed around a matching fireplace on that wall. The chimneys to both fireplaces were probably part of the original Georgian structure and would help the brothers to mark the building's original footprint.

The MacDougals' description of the 'spirit' causing accidents out on the rural road placed him in the 1700s. Whatever his connection to the inn was, it most likely involved the oldest sections of the building.

The front desk where the brothers had received their keys was centered along the back wall of the room. It was bracketed by a wooden stairway on the left and the mouth of a wide hallway on the right.

Bob nodded at the stairway and looked up at Sam. "Your room is up those stairs. There are two other rooms up there with you, including the MacDougal's suite."

The manager swiveled his head from side to side, checking to make sure no one else was in the area before tapping Sam's arm and crooking his finger until Sam leaned down closer. "I'll deny it if you repeat this to anyone, but I think you've got the nicest room up there. It's a tad smaller…okay, it's a lot smaller, but the ambience…" The man rolled his eyes and a small shiver of pleasure coursed through him. "All of the original woodwork…and the view! Dear Lord in heaven, what a view!" He held his finger to his lips, urging Sam to silence. "And such a steal!" he whispered. "They are paying an ungodly amount of money for those suites."

Sam could see Dean over the top of Bob's head, and his expression sent chills down Sam's spine. This entire afternoon was easily going to translate into a month of new material for what his brother considered comedy. "What about Dean's room?" he asked quietly. "He can be such high maintenance sometimes. Just soooo picky."

"No worries, dear. He has a marvelous single." Bob glanced over his shoulder and exchanged a brief smile with Dean before looking back at Sam. "His view isn't as nice as yours," he mouthed silently.

Sam started to laugh and the smirk faded from Dean's face, his eyes narrowing as he looked back and forth between the two men.

Bob stepped away from Sam and nodded at the stairway again. "There's a doorway that leads to the east wing at the top of the main staircase, so you, Dino, can get to your room this way, or by using the stairway at the far end of the wing."

He headed for the hallway that led from the right side of the front desk towards the back of the building, setting a brisk pace. "Follow me boys," he called over his shoulder.

Sam looked at Dean with his eyebrows raised. "Dino?"

Dean put his hand up, palm out. "Don't even go there, dude," he said in a tone that promised violence.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm as he began to walk past, following Bob. "Do you think all the guests get this royal treatment…Dino?" he muttered.

"Only the ones I like!" Bob's voice trailed back from the hallway and Sam dropped his chin onto his chest, squeezing his eyes shut to block out his brother's renewed smile. He was going to have to remember that the diminutive innkeeper had ears like a freakin' jackrabbit.

The paneled wainscoting and wide plank floors of the front room extended the length of the hallway that Bob led them down. Heavy wooden molding encased the edges of an open doorway on the right side of the hall. "The breakfast room," Bob announced. The spacious room was tucked into the west wing and shared a wall with the library. Bob pointed past the tables and chairs spaced throughout the room, indicating a large sideboard on the far wall. "You can almost always find fresh coffee in the urn, and Delores usually keeps some of her wonderful pastries on there for guests who'd like a little snack. They're scrumptious!"

Dean's face lit up and he made a beeline for the promised land of caffeine and sugar while Bob and Sam continued down the hallway. The small man stopped in front of a set of French doors at the end of the hall and looked up at Sam, his face glowing. He grabbed the door handles and dramatically pulled both doors open. "The Benjamin Tavern!"

He stepped aside with a flourish and allowed Sam to enter the room before him. Sam's curiosity was definitely piqued and he stepped deliberately over the threshold, his eyes running slowly over the room.

Wood paneled wainscoting reached partway up the walls, much like the other rooms they had toured, but in here the wood was darker. It looked smoother, more worn than in the other rooms. As though thousands of hands had brushed against it over the past two hundred and fifty years, as though long dresses had once skimmed along it, and pant legs—from rough woolen breeches to designer jeans—had leaned against it.

The surfaces above the wainscoting were a simple rough plaster, occasionally broken up by imposing floor to ceiling beams. The beams were a heavy dark wood, their surfaces bearing almost two and a half centuries of history. Additional wooden beams, stained by centuries of smoke, ran across the ceiling. The wide plank flooring was also darker and more worn in this room than in any of the others, especially in front of the large brick fireplace centered on the outside wall.

Bob pulled a wooden chair out from one of the tables along the edge of the room and perched on the edge of it, his eyes following Sam as the hunter walked slowly around the room. He was grinning as though he had just given the young man a wonderful gift and was eagerly watching him unwrap it.

Sam couldn't resist running his hands lightly over the old battered wood of the bar. It was dark with age but gleamed with polish. He paused and lightly touched small gouges in the wood with his fingertip. Once rough and splintered, they had been worn smooth by time. Each mark, each stain in the wood had a story to tell. Warmth wrapped around him and he sank down onto a wooden stool in front of the bar, his eyes still taking in every detail of the room.

Bob hopped to his feet and clapped his hands together in delight. "I knew it! I knew you'd feel it! I could just sense that about you!" He walked over and leaned against the bar next to Sam, talking more quietly. "Can't you just see them?" he said with a sigh. "Farmers and drovers and teamsters, travelers on the road, gathered in John Benjamin's Tavern on a cold autumn night…with their ale and their hard cider and their mead…talking about the state of the road or discussing their crops…" He pointed to the side of the fireplace. "Maybe at a table there, sitting and playing checkers, and over there," he pointed at the side wall "wagering on a game of darts."

He gave Sam a small smile and then turned to face the bar, running both hands over the top of it. He pitched his voice low, a whisper almost swallowed in the weighted silence of the old tavern. "And huddled together, right here, with their pewter tankards in their fists, whispering about the injustice of the King's taxes and their outrage over British regiments in Boston… Can't you just see them, Sam? Can't you just hear them?"

Sam's eyes floated around the room and he _could_ see them, milling around the room, some in rough homespun clothes and others in period finery…he could hear their whispers, feel their growing discontent and desire for self rule…

"Hey! What am I missing?"

Dean's voice from the tavern doorway was loud and jarring in the hush of the room and Sam jumped, almost losing his seat on the wooden stool. He put his hand on his chest and looked over at Bob who was mirroring his gesture, looking equally startled. Laughter burst from both of them and Dean crossed the room to stand in front of them, a delicate coffee cup in one hand and a flaky pastry in the other, his expression wondering if they'd both lost their minds as he took another bite and chewed slowly.

"Bob was just telling me a little about the history of the tavern," Sam said, his laughter settling down to a small chuckle.

"Dear boy, you are getting the bill from my stylist when he has to dye the gray hair you just gave me!" Bob said, wiping tears from under his eyes. "I was telling Sam about the ghosts that fill this room, and I believe we both got a little caught up in their spell."

"Ghosts, huh?" Dean looked at Sam, his eyebrows lifting in silent question as he sipped his coffee.

Sam subtly shook his head. "The ghosts of history," he explained.

"Many a colorful character has passed through that door, and swilled a beer at this bar!" Bob said, slapping his hand down on top of the old wood. "Politicians and soldiers, British spies and highwaymen, traveling musicians and wealthy merchants. These walls could tell many a story, gentlemen. Many a story."

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Dean pulled the doors of the armoire open slowly, almost afraid to look inside. A huge smile lit his face when he got a glimpse through the widening crack between them and he flung the doors the rest of the way open. "Sweet!"

He turned to where his brother was hovering in the doorway and brandished a remote control like it was the prize from a Cracker Jack box. "Bobby boy was getting me nervous with all his talk about how 'authentic' everything was. If this is authentic…thank god the colonists had flat screen TVs!"

Sam dropped the computer bag and his duffel by the door and stepped into the room. "No, Bob told us _yours_ is the renovated room," he said, running his hands over an antique writing desk under the window before turning to glare at this brother. "You made sure I got the authentic room. Which means I'll be lucky if I get indoor plumbing."

"Age has its privileges," Dean smirked. He flopped down on the bed and scooted backwards until he was leaning against the large wooden headboard. "So…what do you think Sarah's doing for Thanksgiving?"

He ignored Sam's silence and continued with a little smirk. "It's only a couple of weeks from now, and Massachusetts isn't that far from the Hudson Valley. I mean, it would break Bob's heart, but Sarah would probably like this place."

Sam unconsciously rubbed at the impressive collection of bruises on his hip caused by a recent encounter with a heavy secretary desk in New York. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips at the memory. It had been a nice feeling to 'save the girl'…especially when the girl was someone he genuinely liked. He mentally kicked himself when he looked up to see Dean's eyes on him. He forced the smile off of his face and fixed his brother with his best impression of their dad's 'evil eye'.

The truth was he had mixed feelings about what had happened in New York. Part of him was uncomfortable with how easy it had been to kiss Sarah. He recognized that it was the part of him that never wanted to let Jess go. He also recognized that trying to hold on to something that was lost to him might not be the healthiest way to handle things. "Dude, we've got a job to do here. How about if we concentrate on that?" he asked quietly.

Something in his expression must have warned Dean off because the smirk faded. "So, the renovations were done a couple of years ago," Dean started, his demeanor all business.

"And the figure started appearing out on the road just a couple of months ago," Sam finished. "So what triggered it?"

"We know he's not a recent death, unless, like MacDougal said, he was on his way to a costume party…on horseback." Dean's mouth twisted at the unlikelihood of that possibility.

Sam lowered himself onto a wing chair across from the bed, leaning back with his long legs stretched in front of him as he pulled open the front of his jacket. "I think we have to find out if there have been any other recent changes in the area."

"That's a place to start. I also think we're gonna have to chat up the locals, see what kind of local ghost stories are floating around. Didn't you say there were some online about this place?"

"Yeah, a couple." Sam raised his index finger as he began to count them off. "There have been sightings of a little boy out on the road…" He shook his head when Dean raised his eyebrows. "A little boy, dude. Like nine or ten years old. Supposed to be the spirit of a local child killed by the stagecoach in the early 1800's."

"And he's not causing car crashes, I take it?"

The side of Sam's mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. "No, but a Mr. Dooley ran his bike into a tree at the sight. Of course the fact that he was just leaving the tavern might have had something to do with it." He held up a second finger. "And then there are the stories of a woman in a nightgown wandering around the rooms at night—"

"I think every self-respecting historic inn has one of them," Dean interrupted and Sam nodded his head.

Sam's thumb joined the two raised fingers. "And then there was the sound of crying out by the old barn. Legend pegged that as a woman whose lover was killed during the Civil War. That ended when the barn was torn down about fifty years ago." Sam leaned over and grabbed the wooden chair tucked under the desk, dragging it to a spot in front of him. He propped his feet on it and slouched down even farther in the wing chair. "But no men on horseback," he finished.

Dean's eyebrows had been climbing farther up his forehead with every second his little brother took to get himself settled. "Dude! Don't you have your own room to check out? And drop your stuff in? So we can get the hell out of here and go get something to eat?" His voice got progressively louder with each word.

He laughed at Sam's wide eyed expression. "You forgot you had your own room for a minute there, didn't you?" Dean began to shake his head when Sam's feet hit the ground with a thump and he hastily stood up heading for the door. "I know it's tough leaving the nest, but you can't hang onto my coattails forever Sammy," Dean said solemnly from his place on the bed. "Time to spread those wings…" He began to laugh again when Sam flashed him a one fingered salute on his way out of the room.

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Sam opened the door at the end of Dean's hall and emerged into his own hallway. Dean was right. He was so used to them sharing a room that he'd acted on auto pilot, settling into Dean's room. It would be nice to have some privacy…but he still felt like something was missing.

Whoa. He and Dean were spending a little _too_ much time together when a brief separation felt weird.

They had used the stairway at the far end of the east wing to reach Dean's room, so this was the first time Sam was seeing the second floor of the original structure. The large staircase that Bob had pointed out earlier turned at some point during its ascent. It started on the left side of the room downstairs, but emerged in the center of the second floor.

A wide hallway extended towards the back of the building, and he was willing to bet that the door at the far end of it was his room. The two other suites were on either side of the center hall. If the length of the hallway was any indication, Bob wasn't exaggerating when he said they were large.

Bob had neglected to mention the fourth suite. The door bore a small plaque etched with the word 'Private' as well as a deadbolt, and its placement mirrored Sam's. This suite seemed to encompass the entire front of the original building, however, making it the biggest on the floor.

The hallway looked much like the one downstairs except that it was darker. When all of the doors along it were closed the only natural light it received was whatever reflected up the stairway. Wall sconces threw a soft light over the expanse, and Sam wondered what it had been like when the sconces held candles and the shadows in the corners had leapt and swayed with false life. The wide floorboards squeaked softly under his light footsteps as he moved towards his door.

An oval plaque in the center of the heavy six panel door identified it as '3 C'. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he laid his palm against the polished wood of the door for a second before he inserted the key into the lock. He'd somehow known that the wood would feel almost warm under his hand.

The door swung open easily with a quiet invitation to enter. He stepped into the room and took a deep breath, feeling strangely at home in a room he had never entered before. Feeling welcomed.

The room itself reminded him of the tavern. It had the same atmosphere of a rich history lived within its walls. The wooden floor was just a little lighter than the one in the public room, a little less worn, but it glowed with the same soft patina of age. A floor cloth painted in a black and white diamond pattern broke up the expanse of wood. It was a reproduction of a style appropriate to the era, much like the whole cloth quilt on the oversized single bed. He was almost surprised that there was no wainscoting, but instead a tall baseboard ran around the edges of the floor. The walls were the same rough plaster as the tavern, and the heavy wooden beams spaced along two of the walls and the ceiling bore the same marks of age.

The room wasn't large, but it easily fit a chest of drawers, wing chair, and colonial writing desk in addition to the bed. An open door in the side wall confirmed that while much of the room was in its original form, the practicalities of a working inn in today's world had been considered. Renovations had supplied the room with a private partial bath.

Unlike his brother, he wasn't disappointed at the room's lack of a TV. They had long ago supplied themselves with a wireless card that gave them access to the internet anywhere that cell towers could reach. It would definitely be easier to concentrate on his research without the constant chatter of the TV in the background.

He dropped his duffel and the computer bag on the end of his bed and walked toward the casement windows without turning the room lights on. The window panes were smaller and more numerous than modern windows and he had to stand close to get an unobstructed view of the outside.

The glass was thick and a little wavy. It might not be the original, but it was old. A light cloak of darkness lay over Bob's exalted view as the sun dropped past the edge of the earth to the west. Lights on the front of the tavern painted the cobblestone courtyard under Sam's window with golden highlights. The parking area for the tavern was tucked out of sight to the right, closer to the black ribbon of road that was visible from Sam's window. A newer barn stood on the site that had once held the old haunted structure. It was mainly used for storage, but housed a small gift shop in the front. Beyond the barn a dark line meandered over the fields, marking the path of a stream. The stream and the black roadway bracketed rolling fields and stands of trees set against the backdrop of taller hills. The details were lost to dusk, but from what Sam could see, Bob was right about the view.

Sam leaned against the edge of the window, lost in the peace of the scenery. It was quiet in his room, the air hushed and still. He closed his eyes and allowed his muscles to relax and his mind to drift, enjoying the calm silence.

The sound coming from beyond the window was just a hint at the edge of his consciousness. So subtle he was barely aware of it and his mind could hardly be troubled to pay attention. It came slowly closer, but was still just a whisper. It drifted in on the back of a soft breeze that must have slid past the small cracks around the casement. A soft breeze that stirred the room's warmth into a breath that caressed his cheek and ran soft fingers over the back of his neck.

It took a moment for Sam's hazy mind to tentatively identify the rhythmic beat as the soft fall of a horse's hoofs against cobblestone. His head had shifted when he relaxed next to the window, and the glass in front of him when he opened his eyes was thick, wavy and clouded with age.

He could barely see the shadowy figure on the far edge of the cobblestones, couldn't tell if it was a shadow in the glass or a trick of the light outside. He blinked and straightened up, finding a clear pane as the elusive sound faded away. The cobblestones were bare except for leaves blowing across them, pushed by the autumn breeze. The autumn breeze that for some reason no longer stirred the air of the room around him.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

A/N Things will be heating up in the next chapter. This is going to be another long fic…but not nearly as long a Hozho. I'm still figuring out this 'writing thing', so I hope you like the story as it goes along.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so so much for giving this story a try. The reviews and alerts are just so dang encouraging, you have no idea how much they mean to me. I'm doing a happy dance at seeing familiar names from Hozho—and some new names. Really, I am. It's kind of a scary sight.

If you are familiar with "The Highwayman", the poem itself or the Loreena McKennitt song, (which I happen to be listening to at this very moment—love it!) then you will recognize bits and pieces of them scattered throughout this story.

As promised, things heat up in this chapter. I hope you like it.

**Warning:** Here there be cursing…and ghosts.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story.

From Chapter 1:

_The sound coming from beyond the window was just a hint at the edge of his consciousness. So subtle he was barely aware of it and his mind could hardly be troubled to pay attention. It came slowly closer, but was still just a whisper. It drifted in on the back of a soft breeze that must have slid past the small cracks around the casement. A soft breeze that stirred the room's warmth into a breath that caressed his cheek and ran soft fingers over the back of his neck._

_It took a moment for Sam's hazy mind to tentatively identify the rhythmic beat as the soft fall of a horse's hoofs against cobblestone. His head had shifted when he relaxed next to the window, and the glass in front of him when he opened his eyes was thick, wavy and clouded with age._

_He could barely see the shadowy figure on the far edge of the cobblestones, couldn't tell if it was a shadow in the glass or a trick of the light outside. He blinked and straightened up, finding a clear pane as the elusive sound faded away. The cobblestones were bare except for leaves blowing across them, pushed by the autumn breeze. The autumn breeze that for some reason no longer stirred the air of the room around him._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 2**

Dean eased the heavy Impala around the curve, slowing down when the road started to straighten. There was no need to add their names to the list of accident victims. He continued a short distance down the road before pulling the heavy car smoothly onto the shoulder and silencing the engine's rumble with a twist of the key. The soft ticking of the cooling motor was the only sound within the car for a solid ten seconds.

Sam didn't move a muscle, his eyes remaining fixed on some point past the windshield. He was definitely lost in his own world, his chin resting on the curled fingers of his right hand as his index finger tapped a slow rhythm against his lips.

"Ground control to Major Tom," Dean finally said in exasperation. "Are we going to do this or not?"

Blinking his eyes, Sam sat up straighter and looked around. "Oh…hey…we're here. Yeah, let's do this." He pushed his door open and climbed out of the car, ignoring Dean's raised eyebrows.

Dean shook his head and reached over to retrieve the EMF meter from the glove compartment before climbing out. Sam was already standing by the trunk waiting for him, and Dean ran his eyes over his brother's long form trying to detect if there was a problem he should know about. Sam's shoulders were hunched against the chill of the night and he was swaying from side to side as though he was trying to warm himself up, but other than looking like he needed a heavier jacket, he looked fine.

"What's going on with you? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam widened his eyes and gave a little shrug like he didn't understand why Dean was asking.

Dean paused before putting the key into the trunk lock. "Cause you've been spacing out on me since we left for dinner," Dean continued as though Sam hadn't answered. Basically, "I'm fine" was a non answer.

Sam grimaced slightly. "I've just been thinking that we might have a tough time figuring out what spirit is causing these accidents. Cause, dude, I have a feeling that inn is crawling with them. It just has that …feel."

An unpleasant thought began to worm its way into Dean's mind. "You had a Haley Joe moment, didn't you." It wasn't really a question and he scowled when Sam shrugged. The urge to swat the back of his brother's head was almost too strong to resist.

"Dude, I don't know what it was. I mean, I thought I got a glimpse of something, but it was only for a second and it could have been nothing," he shook his head, his expression confused. "It's more a feeling than anything else."

"We'll do a sweep with the EMF meter when we get back there," Dean said as he opened the trunk. He handed Sam his silver Beretta and a short barreled shotgun before slipping his own Beretta into the back of his pants and also grabbing a shotgun. "Until we find out if Casper plays well with others we better be ready for anything."

They walked along the shoulder of the road, backtracking the way they had come. Dean ignored his brother's grumbles about the distance. He wasn't parking his baby anywhere near the spot where Casper had already managed to mangle a handful of other cars. The moon was close enough to full to bathe the road in front of them and the fields on either side in soft light. The earlier breeze had died down, leaving the evening air crisp.

The remains of an old stone wall marked the border between the fields and the stretch of woods that hemmed the road through the rolling hills. The large rocks had long ago fallen out of their once precise arrangement and now resembled a long and snaking mound of stone more than they did a wall. Weeds grew up through the spaces between them, and in some sections the stone was so scattered it was tough to tell they had ever had a sense of order. Sam leaned down and lightly touched one of the rocks on the top of the pile. "This wall might have been here since before the Inn was built," he said softly. "There's a lot of history in this area."

Dean pointed at a nearby tree. A raw looking scar across its heavy trunk identified it as the tree that the MacDougal's had run into. "That's the history I'm interested in right now," he said, turning on the EMF meter.

"The other accidents were close to this same spot, right?" Sam asked.

"Yep. And there's why." Dean pointed down the road to the start of the first curve. "Cars coming too fast out of that bend aren't going to see anything in the road until they're on top of it." He began to walk slowly across the blacktop, his eyes fixed on the meter. It remained dark and silent in his hand.

Several trips back and forth across the road and up and down the shoulder on both sides failed to wake the small device and Dean frowned, his shoulders slumping slightly. He was ready for some action.

"Hey, Dean? Check this out."

Sam was standing about twenty feet away from him, staring into the woods beyond the soft shoulder of the road. "Look," he said, pointing at the ground as Dean jogged closer. Deeply rutted tracks marked the dirt, the heavy tread obviously belonging to a piece of construction equipment like a backhoe or a bulldozer. The ruts moved through a break in the trees and continued down what appeared to be a newly created dirt road. Whatever the reason was for the disturbed land, it was too close to the site of the recent appearances to be a coincidence.

Dean slipped the meter into his jacket pocket and pulled a flashlight out. He switched it on and led the way into the trees.

The dirt track they followed was fairly new, the ground still looking freshly cleared. It was missing the small weeds and leaf litter that would have been present on an older dirt pathway. Small trees and tree stumps that had been moved out of the way, most likely by a bulldozer, were pushed to the sides and lined the track. The splintered ends of the wood were still light in color, showing none of the discoloration that would have resulted from long exposure.

"Timing looks right," Sam said. "The first accident was…what? About two and half months ago? It looks like this might have been cleared somewhere around the same time."

The track was slightly winding as they followed it, so that from the main road there was no direct line of sight down it. After about a quarter of a mile it opened up to a wider swath of cleared land. The depth of the cleared area was impossible to judge in the dark, even with the moonlight throwing a soft radiance over the area. It wasn't very wide though, maybe a couple of hundred feet across.

"There's no way it took a couple of months to just clear this much." Sam's comment mirrored Dean's thoughts. "But if they're done clearing…" He looked around at the long but relatively narrow clearing and shrugged. It was tough to figure out its purpose in its present form.

"Any ideas?" Dean finally asked. "'Cause I got nothing."

Sam pulled his own flashlight out and began to walk along the edge of the trees. He stopped when he reached one of the corners of the clearing, the flashlight beam shining into the trees beyond it. "They're not done," he said, moving the light a bit to draw Dean's eyes to the orange ribbons tied around the trunks of trees extending in a straight line into the woods. "They were supposed to take down a lot more trees."

"So why did they stop?" Dean wondered out loud. He began to walk in the opposite direction from Sam, skimming the edge of the tree line. "Stay within sight," he called softly to his brother.

It had been a mild fall and the torn up ground wasn't frozen yet, making it difficult to walk over in the dark. The deep ruts left by machinery were interspersed with patches of soft ground that sucked at Dean's feet as he tried to walk through them. He cursed when his boot sank in one damp spot, mud reaching halfway up his foot. The flashlight wasn't much help. He swung it in wide arcs, hoping to see something, anything, that would distinguish one particular patch of mud from the rest, that would show it was important for some reason.

His pace quickened when his eyes began to distinguish a large form partway down the side of the clearing, an area of deeper darkness that looked more solid the closer he got to it. A structure of some type? Could this job be as simple as a colonial homestead being disturbed?

The flashlight beam showed more detail as he neared, and he slowed down when he realized it was nothing more than a large pile of the trees that had been cleared. He was starting to think finding anything significant in the clearing would be impossible in the dark.

His eyes narrowed when he began to walk around the pile and the far side of it edged into view. The flashlight beam caught a flash of yellow and he focused in on it. A small backhoe was sitting abandoned in the mud, an incongruous bit of man made machinery in the midst of the trees and dirt. Okay, that qualified as something worth examining.

He turned to look across the clearing, searching for Sam's flashlight. A small chill worked its way down his back when he didn't see it. His instinct was to run across the open expanse and find his brother, and he actually took a step in that direction. Movement to his right caught his eye and he turned his head to focus on it, the tension draining out of him.

Sam's flashlight was bobbing along the edge of the woods, heading in his direction. He knew Sam could take care of himself, knew he was overreacting…but he didn't care. Sam had been snatched away from him a couple of times in the past several months, and it was not something he ever wanted to relive. He worked on getting his breathing back under control while he watched the flashlight's steady approach.

Dean barely heard the quiet footstep behind him, the sound muffled by the soft ground. A combination of instinct and training were all that saved him. Something was whistling through the air behind him, and he threw himself forward.

The shovel that was aimed at the back of his head missed its target, the flat of the shovel connecting with the back of Dean's shoulder instead. It was a glancing blow, but solid enough to drive the hunter to his knees and spin the world around him in an explosion of pain.

The shotgun in his hand was useless if he couldn't get his muscles to listen to him, if he couldn't turn around to face his attacker. He was vaguely aware that Sam's flashlight had begun bobbing wildly and was approaching quickly. But Sam was still too far away to prevent a second attack.

Dean's muscles were frozen, spasming from the impact. He could not make the top of his body twist the way he needed it to. So he did the next best thing and dove forward, landing on his stomach and then rolling his entire body over, the shotgun held out in front of him.

He immediately rolled to the side when he realized the shovel was airborne and headed right for him. His attacker had turned and begun sprinting towards the woods as soon as he threw the shovel. He disappeared into the darkness between the trees before Dean could recover from the roll and aim the shotgun at him, and the hunter cursed. A butt full of rock salt would have slowed the fleeing figure down.

"DEAN!" Sam's voice was deep, fearful. He was close enough for Dean to hear him grunting and cursing as he pushed himself to run over the treacherous ground.

Dean rolled over and forced himself up onto his knees, panting with the effort. "I'm fine," he grunted, waving Sam to run past him. He wasn't surprised when his brother ignored him, stopping and crouching in front of him.

"Dean, man, are you all right?"

"Damn it Sam! I'm fine!" he growled out, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted in anger. "Get that bastard!"

Sam's face hardened and he immediately pushed himself back onto his feet and into a flat out run in pursuit. Dean was pretty sure he heard a muttered 'stubborn ass' trailing on the breeze left in his brother's wake.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

He was moving almost too fast for the flashlight beam to warn him of obstacles in his way. As soon as the light picked out the deepest ruts and the soggiest patches of clinging mud, it was time to leap them. The footing became more solid when he reached the trees, but the new obstacles of downed tree limbs and whipping branches were even more hazardous.

The figure he was pursuing didn't have a flashlight and Sam switched his own off. It fit neatly into his coat pocket and he pulled the Beretta from the back of his pants to take its place in his hand. He slowed his headlong rush and quieted his breathing, listening intently to the woods around him. It was easy to hear the snapping sticks and the loud crunch of dried leaves that marked the location of his prey, and Sam swiveled to his left and began to run in that direction.

When he had seen the shadow behind Dean, and then saw his brother go down, the fear was hot and quick. He was not thrilled about leaving Dean kneeling in the dirt, but there had definitely been more fury than pain on his brother's face.

Sam slowed again and let his ears guide him in a new direction. Branches snagged at his coat as he ran, and he almost took a header over a large rock. When he stumbled over a second one he realized he was traveling next to an old stone wall, possibly the same one he had seen near the road. The trees on the other side of it looked thinner, the spaces around them growing larger and larger as he skirted the wall, until they were just an occasional sentinel on the edge of a moonlit field.

The field looked empty in front of him, but the hip high grasses could have hidden a dozen men and he wouldn't be able to see them if they were lying still. There were no longer any sounds to guide him, the night silent around him.

"Damn." Sam breathed out a harsh sigh. His muscles were trembling lightly with the unexpended adrenaline rush and he had to force himself to walk slowly and quietly along the wall, his eyes sweeping the field next to him for any movement.

The night was growing colder and the sweat trickling down the sides of his face was leaving an icy trail behind. Ahead of him he could see the dark ribbon of the road, confirming that this was the same wall they'd passed earlier. If there was no sign of Dean's attacker by the time he got to the road he would follow the dirt track back to the cleared area and find his brother.

He shivered as the temperature suddenly plummeted and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. His breath formed white clouds in front of his face and cold air bit at the skin on his cheeks. He turned his head slowly, looking over his shoulder as he switched the shotgun to his right hand. He held it ready as he swiveled in a slow circle. The night was still crisp and clear around him, nothing out of place.

His feet barely crunched the dry leaves in his path as he walked towards the road. The cold bit deeper and the shivers grew more pronounced as his muscles tensed, preparing. He faintly heard a rhythmic noise and his mind was thrown back to his room in the inn. This was similar to before…but different. At the inn the experience had been dreamy, indistinct. Here it seemed real.

Sam halted on the shoulder of the road, his eyes drawn to a faint white mist floating above the blacktop. The noise became clearer…it was the thud of horse hoofs hitting the packed dirt of an old road. The sounds took on detail, became more distinct, the creak of leather and a horse's soft sigh whispering through the dark.

The mist seemed to draw in on itself, becoming slightly tighter and denser and Sam held his breath as it drifted closer. Delicate tendrils of fog uncurled from the mass, slowly extending, slowly reaching for him. He took a step backwards, raising the shotgun with his finger on the trigger.

But he didn't want to squeeze it, to send out the rock salt that would disperse the cloud. He didn't sense any menace in the gauzy fingers of mist. This could be a chance to learn something that would help them to free this spirit from a place where it didn't belong.

He was rocked by a wave of sorrow as the wisps of mist came closer. They circled his feet and he gasped at the shock and anger that flooded him. The sense of betrayal and heartbreaking loss. And over it all, the loneliness and sorrow.

He was losing Jess again, it was that first wave of anguish renewed, heavy and poignant. He felt a bone deep need to hold her in his arms again, to lose himself in her and know that she was lost in him. That nothing could keep them apart.

…_Bess_…

A harsh squeal worked its way into the edges of his consciousness. It ended with a sharp roar and the mist was blown apart in front of him. The emotions blew apart as quickly as the apparition and Sam's muscles relaxed when he was released from their hold. He stumbled back a step and drew in a deep breath.

"Sam!"

He turned his head and looked at his brother, his eyes wide. "Dean?" He felt hollow, washed out by the loss of the overpowering emotions.

Dean was looking at him with an expression that was equal parts fear and annoyance. "Are you okay? What the hell was going on?"

Sam ran his hand over his face and shook his head, not really sure what had happened.

"Sam?"

"Yeah…yeah, I'm good," he finally said, shrugging his shoulders.

"I called you three times before I salted Casper," Dean said, doubt clear on his face.

"It…he…was like trying to connect with me or something."

Dean's eyebrows drew down and he just stared at Sam for a beat before he talked. "Connect with you. You mean like possess you?" Dean's voice had hardened, and he began to eye the rock salt loaded shotgun in Sam's hand warily.

Sam winced. He knew Dean's harsh tone was based more on fear for him than anger over the Ellicott incident, but it still hurt. "No, dude," he said quietly. "More like he was trying to communicate with me."

"What…you're going ghost whisperer on me? Cause I gotta tell ya, Jennifer's a lot cuter than you. Don't suppose he told you who he was while you were chatting, did he?" Dean's words were light, but his tone wasn't.

"No, it wasn't like that…" Sam shuddered as he trailed off. It felt like the cold that had accompanied the experience had settled into his bones. "Can we talk about it after we get someplace warm? And what are you doing out here on the road, anyway?"

"You mean besides saving your butt? And 'you're welcome' by the way." Dean's stance relaxed and he began to massage his left shoulder with a wince. "I heard the direction you were moving and figured I could head the bastard off when he got to the road. I was almost back to it when the meter picked up your friend." His eyes narrowed. "What about the guy who whacked me. You lost him?"

Sam looked away from his brother's penetrating stare and nodded his head, embarrassed.

"Crap." Dean twisted from side to side and rolled his shoulders, his face set in a grimace. He brushed past Sam, heading in the direction of the Impala.

"Wait, Dean, where are you going? Don't we have to go figure out what that guy was doing in the clearing? It could be connected to the job." Sam's eyes darted between the dark opening into the woods and his brother's retreating back. He trotted to catch up with Dean and matched his pace, walking by his side.

"I know what he was doing. Found the nice little seat he made for himself on a log…his pile of cigarette butts…and his half empty bottle. He was having himself a private party with JD," Dean snarled. "I WASN'T GONNA STEAL YOUR GODDAMN BOOZE!" he yelled into the quiet night. "And now I'm going back to the inn," he looked down at the mud smeared over his body from his dive to the ground "taking a shower, finding an ice pack, and swallowing a bottle of Advil."

A slow smile began to form on Sam's face. "Wait…you mean some boozer working his way through a bottle got the drop on you?"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam's smile grew. "I'm just saying you'd think his breath alone—"

"Laugh it up, funny boy. Maybe it'll keep your ass warm while you're walking back to the inn."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

"Jesus, Dean," Sam breathed out softly as he laid the cold pack across the back of his brother's shoulder. "I think your skin would have been torn open if not for your coat."

Dean hissed and edged forward a bit on the bed as though he was trying to get away from the contact with his abraded skin.

"Cut it out," Sam instructed, pushing against the front of Dean's shoulder and maneuvering him until he was sitting back against the headboard with the cold pack wedged in place against his back.

"It's freakin' cold, Sam," Dean grumbled. He looked suspiciously like he was starting to pout.

"It's supposed to be," Sam answered patiently. "You can switch to a warm compress to relax the muscle tomorrow. Right now you need cold, especially with the swelling and the bruising."

"Okay, Florence," Dean smirked.

"Here." Sam held his left hand out, a small tan pill nestled in his palm.

"What's that?" Dean asked, eyeing it with a frown.

"Muscle relaxant. Bob said his back goes out on him sometimes and these work great."

"You told Bob?" Dean's eyes went wide.

"Dude! Where do you think the cold pack came from? Remember you never replaced the one you lost when you were trying to keep that beer chilled a couple of weeks ago? I talked to him while you were in the shower."

Dean looked at the pill and shook his head. "You know that'll knock me out and we still need to go over this place with the EMF meter."

"Take it or you're going to stiffen up and not be able to move tomorrow. It's half the dose someone your size needs. We can't check the tavern with the meter until tomorrow anyway. They've got a crowd down there."

"Really?" Dean's eyes lit up and he started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He froze and bit back a curse, his face contorting in pain.

Sam dropped to his knees, his stomach clenching. He would hide it under ten layers of snark, but something inside of him twisted every time he saw his brother in pain. He slid his arm under Dean's legs and gently placed them back on the bed. "There you go, grandma."

Dean sighed and held his hand out. "Give me it." His face was tight with pain and Sam knew the muscles in his back must be locked in a spasm for Dean to give in so easily.

It was tough, but Sam managed to hold in his grin when he handed over the medicine and a glass of water. He busied himself with wiping the mud off of Dean's leather jacket while Dean flipped through channels, waiting for the pill to take the edge off of the muscle spasms.

"So, you heard 'Bess' too?" Dean finally asked as he put the remote control onto the table next to the bed.

"Yeah. He's got some pretty strong emotions keeping him here. He loved her, but I don't think things ended too happily for them." He ignored the 'duh' look Dean shot his way. "There was some kind of betrayal, and a lot of anger."

Sam sat on the wing chair and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and fixing his brother with an intense look. "Dean, we're talking a _lot_ of anger and sorrow. He hasn't killed anyone yet with these accidents, but I think it's just a matter of time."

Dean's eyes were taking on a glassy 'owl' look as the medicine kicked in and he blinked slowly. "So maybe somebody will know who this Bessiss…Besss…isss." He glared at Sam. "Dammit Sammy! That was no half dose! You know how I get with muscle relaxants!" He formed each word with slow deliberation, but 'relaxants' still came out a bit garbled.

"You needed it if you want to be able to function tomorrow," Sam answered as he moved back to the side of the bed and helped Dean to slide down and roll onto his stomach. He resettled the cold pack across Dean's back and pulled the covers up to his waist.

"If you try to give me a goodnight kiss I'm gonna hurt you," Dean slurred, his eyes sliding shut.

"You're not my type," Sam said softly.

He stood by the bed until Dean's breathing evened out. There was a small canister of salt in Dean's duffel and Sam made quick work of laying subtle but complete lines in front of the door and windows. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of leaving Dean defenseless in a building that might harbor a resident spirit or two.

Not that he was leaving any time soon. From past experience…too much past experience…Sam knew the medicine would hit Dean hard and fast. The plus side was that the almost narcotic-like effects would wear off within a few hours. After that Dean would be able to wake up and function normally if there was a threat.

Sam flipped off the room's lights, leaving just a small one burning in the bathroom. He settled himself back onto the wingchair with his head resting on his fist and his legs stretched in front of him. His eyes scanned the room one last time making sure everything was secure before he let them slide shut.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The door of his room closed with a satisfyingly solid feel and Sam pushed himself away from it as a huge yawn split his face. He had awoken in Dean's room in time to see the small red numbers on the clock next to Dean's bed change to 2:46. A quick calculation had told him it was safe to return to his own room. The cold pack had warmed to room temperature by the time he took it off of Dean's back. He left a glass of water and a couple of Advil on the nightstand next to Dean's cell before quietly letting himself out.

He was beat. He'd dozed off and on in the chair, but it hadn't exactly been restful sleep. It only took a couple of minutes to get his teeth brushed and then he was shedding layers of clothing and climbing into bed in his boxers. The soft sheets and plush pillows were in sharp contrast to the places where they normally stayed and Sam smiled lazily to himself. They actually reminded him of the linens Jess had purchased for their apartment. He turned his head sideways on the pillow, almost expecting it to smell like her, and pushed down the brief wave of melancholy that went through him when the only scent was from an expensive fabric softener.

It was dark and quiet and his muscles began to relax as the comfort of the room surrounded him and welcomed him. His thoughts fragmenting as sleep tugged at him, he was surprised when he realized the tavern must still have some people in it. He'd expected it to close hours ago, but he could hear faint strains of music drifting up to him. It was barely there, certainly not loud enough to keep him awake. A fiddle playing a slow ballad, it died away for just a second before the fiddle came back to life, this time strumming furiously, a fast and happy Irish reel. His lips tilted up in a smile as he fell asleep.

It was still dark in the room when his eyes seemed to open of their own accord. He lay still, trying to figure out what had drawn him back to wakefulness after what felt like a very small amount of sleep. Something rustled softly across the room and he stiffened, his eyes seeking the source of the noise in the shadows.

She was in front of one of the windows and the moonlight bathed her in a soft glow. Her eyes were fixed on the night outside of the window and the angle of the bed allowed Sam to study her profile.

He would guess she was in her late teens or early twenties and wore a simple white shift. Waves of long dark hair cascaded over her slim back and shoulders and her hands played with a curl, winding it over and over around her fingers. She was pretty in spite of the heavy blanket of sadness that lay over her.

Sam sat up slowly and she started, her mouth forming a small 'o' as she turned towards him. The shock dissolved into a trembling smile.

"I knew you'd return to me." Her voice was a broken whisper. She moved tentatively towards him and Sam rose to his feet and took a step away from the bed. Logic told him he should head for the door, grab some salt, do anything to avoid this encounter.

The knowledge that this encounter was, in fact, unavoidable, came from someplace deeper inside of him.

She seemed to be lit from within and Sam had no trouble seeing the tracks of the silent tears coursing down her face. The transformation was startling as the last of her sorrow faded into joy. He was wrong when he'd thought her pretty. She was heartbreakingly beautiful.

She stopped in front of him and her head tilted back, her eyes drinking in his face. Sam knew he should tell her he wasn't who she thought he was, but he couldn't force his mouth to form the words.

Her delicate hand reached up and he steeled himself for her cold touch. His eyes widened in shock when she laid her palm gently against his cheek. She felt warm and alive against his skin.

Sam lifted his hand to grab her wrist, to break the contact, and was assaulted by a wave of vertigo when he caught sight of his own arm and the long white sleeve that covered it. For the first time he realized that a soft material clung tight to his legs in place of his boxers.

He took a step backwards, his eyes casting around the room. His bed was gone, replaced by a narrow four poster. A chest of drawers stood against the wall, a wood framed mirror hanging above it. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and the vertigo worsened.

A long white linen shirt hung from his wide shoulders, the bottom of it hanging over the top of the tight breeches sheathing his legs. His hair was long in the mirror. Too long. It hung down his back in a heavy ponytail. He realized he could actually feel the weight of it on his back.

His legs were wobbly under him and he collapsed down onto the edge of the bed in back of him. This was only a dream.

But when she stepped between his legs and looked down into his face it didn't feel like a dream. Her hands went to his hair and she leaned down, softly laying her lips against his. "You kept your promise," she whispered.

Sam's mind whirled and the kiss deepened. He realized he had wrapped his arms around her and was crushing her to him, lost in her warmth. The kiss broke off and he looked at her with wonder in his eyes.

He lifted his hand to the dark red ribbon twined through a section of her hair in an intricate love knot and his fingers skimmed over the soft material.

"Bess," he breathed out softly.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

SN

SN

**A/N** I thought it would be best to leave the remainder of this scene, and just how far things progress, to the imagination and preferences of the reader.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews and all the kind things you've had to say.

What actually happened between Sam and Bess? A dream? A trip to the past? A spirit who's strong enough to project her view of reality into the present? Possession? A simple haunting? With Sam's 'shining' I think he might be subject to all of the above. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Warning:** Cursing…and ghosts.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story.

From Chapter 2:

_His legs were wobbly under him and he collapsed down onto the edge of the bed in back of him. This was only a dream._

_But when she stepped between his legs and looked down into his face it didn't feel like a dream. Her hands went to his hair and she leaned down, softly laying her lips against his. "You kept your promise," she whispered._

_Sam's mind whirled and the kiss deepened. He realized he had wrapped his arms around her and was crushing her to him, lost in her warmth. The kiss broke off and he looked at her with wonder in his eyes._

_He lifted his hand to the dark red ribbon twined through a section of her hair in an intricate love knot and his fingers skimmed over the soft material._

"_Bess," he breathed out softly._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 3**

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted down the hallway and Dean drew in a deep breath, his mouth slowly curving into a smile. He was assuming he would find his oversized little brother at one of the tables in the dining room, digging into a Sasquatch sized breakfast. There were times that Sam's appetite was a hit or miss proposition, but over the last couple of months he had been putting the food away with gusto. Turn him loose in a dining room with fresh and tasty food instead of their usual greasy spoon and Dean feared for the Massachusetts egg supply.

Sam was sitting at a table against the wall, but there was no food in front of him. He was hunched over a coffee cup, staring into its depths.

Bob was at a table with the same elderly couple who had been in the library the day before. Yesterday's bright blue cardigan had been exchanged for a pale yellow one. He jumped to his feet and hurried towards Dean when he saw the young man in the doorway, finally halting in front of the hunter with his hands planted on his hips. "Did you two boys have a fight or something? I can't get Handsome to eat anything. He's just been sitting there looking like someone kicked his puppy." The small man eyed Dean through narrowed eyes.

Dean hid a snort of laughter inside of a cough. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it," he answered with a pitifully long, drawn out, sigh. "He can be moody."

Bob's hands dropped from his hips and he gave a nod, his expression softening. "Aren't we all sometimes? And how are you feeling this morning? Sam told me about your unfortunate accident." He patted Dean's arm. "You know, Dino, there's no shame in not being able to roller skate, especially with your balance problem."

He was so going to kill his brother. Bob gave him one last pat and then moved off to continue his rounds of the tables.

Sam still hadn't looked up and Dean began to wonder if his little brother was mad at him for some reason. Sure, he'd growled at Sam through his door when Sam had stopped to get him for breakfast, but if anyone had a right to be angry it was Dean. Sam had practically freakin' drugged him the night before.

Although…he was able to move a lot better than he expected in the morning. His back was stiff and still ached, but at least the muscles behind his shoulder weren't in spasm.

He walked directly to the line of silver chafing dishes and loaded up two plates with food. The French toast looked like something Sam would like. Nicely browned, powdered sugar, slices of strawberries…it was definitely girly enough to please his brother. And was that…quiche? Oh yeah, Sammy got a big helping of that.

Sam's head jerked up in surprise when Dean dropped the plate on the table in front of him. "What's this?" he asked, his face settling into a scowl.

Dean put his own plate down and lowered himself into his chair, babying his back. He grabbed the knife from the place setting already on the table and began using it as a pointer. "That's French toast…that's a strawberry…that looks like a bit of…ummm…spinach?" He shuddered.

"Dean…" Sam spoke through gritted teeth.

"Since you didn't bother to get your own breakfast I figured I better do it for you. I didn't want your boyfriend to yell at me again."

Sam continued to scowl at him. There were dark rings under his eyes…eyes that looked slightly bloodshot.

"Dude, what's going on? You look like hell. Somebody drug you last night or something?" He managed to tinge the final question with just enough sarcasm to warn his brother he wasn't off the hook, but not enough to put Sam's defenses up and launch them into an argument. Or so he thought.

"Dude, if you want to be mad at me about that, then go ahead. I knew you'd be stubborn, and then you'd be hurting big time today," Sam said tiredly as he rubbed his eyes. "I didn't just leave you. I stayed in your room till I knew the meds had worn off."

"Is that why you look like crap? Did you get any sleep?"

"I was back in my room by three." Sam shrugged. He picked up his fork and began playing with the food on his plate. "I just didn't sleep good. Weird dreams or something."

A little shiver went down Dean's spine and he really looked at Sam. His brother was avoiding his eyes, keeping his gaze on his plate as he talked.

"Are we talking 'shouldn't have eaten chili before bed' dreams…or 'somebody's gonna massacre their whole family unless we stop it' dreams?" Dean asked. Sam looked tired, but he wasn't pale and shaky like visions normally left him.

Sam looked up at him and shook his head. "Dean, I honestly don't remember them, but it wasn't a vision. Them I have no problem remembering," he said dryly. Sam's visions were always unpleasant, and sometimes downright gruesome. "I think these were just standard strange dreams."

Dean nodded his head in acceptance before turning his attention to his plate and beginning to work his way through the mound of food on it. His little brother and nightmares had more than a nodding acquaintance. Normally Dean was there to keep an eye on him when he started tossing and turning, ready with a soft comment when Sam woke up with a gasp. On the rare occasions that the dreams seemed to be too much Dean was there to wake his brother with a comforting weight on his shoulder. Normally Dean was there, but he couldn't always be there. And he was trying hard not to feel guilty about that. A little of the weight lifted off of his shoulders when Sam actually started to eat the food in front of him.

They were halfway through their meals when Bob finally made his way to their table. He sat down with a sigh. "So, what are your ghost busting plans for the day?"

Dean was amazed that only a portion of his coffee ended up on the table when the cup tipped in his hand. He busied himself with mopping it up with his napkin, shooting incredulous glances at Sam the whole time. Sam just shrugged in return.

"We're busted, man. Bob talked to the MacDougals and found out about the Institute, so I had to tell him about the study we're doing of the area."

"They told me all about it when I called to see how they were feeling. That's just sooo exciting!" Bob said, his hand waving the air in front of his face. "I told Sam I've never personally seen the spirits of the inn, but I have felt cold spots." He shivered dramatically.

"Bob was also able to tell me that the victims from both of the other accidents were also staying in the original part of the building," Sam said with a small smile for the innkeeper. "And he's all for us going over the place with the meter. He'll even let us into some locked rooms."

Bob held his index finger in front of his lips. "And I know this is all hush hush," he whispered. He turned in his chair so that he was facing Sam. "I've been thinking about it, and there are some books in the library that mention the history of the inn. You're welcome to help yourself to whatever you need. And you simply must talk to George and Margaret! They're in Boston today but they'll be here at the tavern tonight. I'll introduce you if you'd like."

"George and Margaret?" Dean questioned.

"The Hancocks. A lovely couple. They run the town's historical society and its small museum. And they are very active in the local historic preservation movement. If there's anyone who can tell you details about the area's history, it's them."

"The historic preservation 'movement'? Has there been a problem with losing historic sites?" Sam fished.

"Well…" Bob trailed off and quickly brought his coffee cup to his lips, his eyes suddenly looking everywhere around the room except at them.

"We noticed a spot on the road not far from here where it looks like some construction equipment went into the woods. They doing a lot of development in the area?" Dean pushed.

Bob put his coffee cup down with a sigh. "You two are going to get me fired." He laid the tips of the fingers of his right hand over his mouth and twisted his head left and right, checking over both shoulders to see who was close to them. He turned back to the brothers and dropped his hand from his mouth to pat the table in front of him. "It goes no further than this table that you heard this from me. Understood?"

Dean pulled in an impatient breath but then bit down on his planned reply when he caught his brother's glare. Sam was always more tolerant of people than Dean. He would patiently draw the words from witnesses, while Dean had the urge to begin slapping them on the back of the head to see if it would help them push the words out.

"You have our word," Sam said solemnly.

Dean sat back in his chair out of Bob's line of sight and rolled his eyes over the rim of his coffee cup. Sammy could handle this one.

Bob sighed again. "I sometimes believe there is no justice in this world. This," he circled his hand in the air, indicating the building around them, "is an important historic structure. And it is owned by a Philistine. Richard Quincy cares not one whit about the importance of preserving history, unless it can make him a buck."

"Owner's not a history buff, huh?" Dean asked with a little grin.

"The inn has been in Richard's family for almost its entire existence. His great great…whatever…obtained it from John Benjamin, the original owner, back in the 1780s. He's grown up with all of this and just does not appreciate it," Bob replied. "He has a suite in your hallway, Sam, but he's barely ever there. He spends most of his time at his place in Boston. "

Sam nodded as though he knew what Bob was talking about, and Dean realized he hadn't even seen his brother's room yet.

"Richard fancies himself a real estate wheeler and dealer. That tract of land you were asking about? It's currently owned by the township. Richard is negotiating to buy it so he can flip it to a developer and walk away with a huge profit. I've heard the rumors…and we are talking a _huge_ profit." Bob nodded his head, affirming his own statement. "He's a confident SOB. He has one of the selectmen so far in his pocket that he was even able to arrange for the township to start clearing the land as part of the deal," he said with a scowl. His sour expression curled upwards into a catty grin. "George and Margaret put a stop to that. That tract of land is just awash in history. The fields, the homestead, they date to a farm that was established in the early 1700s. The road was one of the main routes to Boston around the time of the Revolution. And the woods? Oh, the woods!"

Bob's voice was positively blissful and Dean found himself leaning forward. Whatever was going on had been triggered by something in those woods. He gave Sam a meaningful look.

"The people around here were unhappy with the British for years before the rebellion started. Representatives of the throne, colonists who were loyal to England…none were safe in that stretch of woods," Bob continued in a tone that suggested he had told this tale to numerous guests.

"Not safe how?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Not safe from ambush and robbery. Certainly not safe from humiliation. There are many written reports of attacks by brigands and thieves. Considering who the victims were, it seems most likely that their attackers were young men trying to impress on the British that they were no longer welcome here."

"So they weren't actually robbing people?" Dean's tone was slightly scoffing.

"I never said they were angels," Bob answered with a wink. "I merely said that rebellion was more their motivation than greed. It was because of those attacks that some troops originally garrisoned in Boston were moved to this area for a time. The presence of the British troops was what really pushed sentiments in this area to support the idea of revolution."

"So your friends put the kibosh on the land getting turned over to developers because of its history?" Dean asked.

"No, my friends are TRYING to put the 'kibosh' on it. The other two selectmen are not completely sold on Richard's plan. They'd like to see the land preserved, but the town just cannot afford to take care of it forever. So George and Margaret are working to have the tract listed on the State Register of Historic Places. Then the town will have a reason to back out of the deal with Richard, and there will be grants available to help the Historical Society purchase the property and preserve it. Quite honestly, George and Margaret have the money to purchase the tract outright, but the town already has that damned agreement with Richard."

"How's your boss feel about that the Hancocks trying to stop it?" Dean began rubbing his shoulder. He was starting to wonder if there was a lot more to his close encounter with the shovel than them barging in on someone's bender. If the land fight had something to do with it Dean wanted to know which side he should thank. Personally.

"He is…_livid_," Bob drawled out with relish. "He's fighting them every step of the way, and pushing the selectmen to complete the sale to him. George and Margaret are scrambling to gather as much information as they can to prove the historical significance of the tract before the sale can be completed. That's why they're in Boston, looking at old records."

Sam looked thoughtful for a moment. "So the fact that there's been some paranormal incidents near that land…"

Bob's face was lit by an excited smile. "Is just perfect for George and Margaret! If you could actually identify the ghostie…now THERE would be something they could hang their hat on."

"Wouldn't make your boss too happy," Dean observed.

Bob leaned across the table and whispered. "Why do you think I approve of you doing all of this on the QT? If Richard found out what you were doing…he would quite honestly want to see you dead."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The faded words on the yellow pages began to run together and Sam pushed himself back in the hard wooden chair, wincing at the soft crack in his back. He'd been hunched over the old books stacked on the small wooden table for hours. The two couches in the cozy library might have been overstuffed and comfy, but the chair pulled up to the small table was unadorned wood and his butt had gone numb an hour ago.

Of course if he'd been on the soft couch he would have been asleep an hour ago.

He slumped down in the chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. They had swept most of the building and some of the grounds for traces of EMF right after breakfast, a wide eyed Bob tagging along for some of the job. The meter registered low readings through most of the original structure and the courtyard outside of the tavern. None of them were high enough to indicate activity at that very moment, but they certainly showed the residue of activity.

Dean had worn a worried frown the entire time they were in Sam's room. He obviously wasn't happy at the proof that there had been activity at some point in the room where his brother slept. Sam knew it hadn't done much to allay his brother's unease when Sam had suddenly become quiet and distracted in his own room.

Sam had shrugged off Dean's questions. He honestly didn't know why he should suddenly feel uncomfortable, and yet completely at home, when he was in the room. It only complicated matters that he was starting to get flashes of the dreams that had disturbed his sleep the night before. Thank God Dean didn't notice when some of those flashes had him blushing.

Long dark hair, soft skin… The images made him think of Sarah.

What did it say about him if he was ready to so easily forget his feelings for Jess and dream about Sarah?

He sighed and dropped his hands into his lap, blinking to clear his fuzzy vision. His eyes skimmed over the books filling the shelves around him, the old paintings adorning the walls, finally focusing on the small flames lapping around the edges of the wood remaining in the fireplace. Exhaustion pulled at him and a dull headache spread from the tense muscles in the back of his neck.

The inn's books had contained numerous passages touting the structure's role in the brewing rebellion. Richard Quincy's distant ancestor was mentioned in a couple of places. Reading between the lines, it seemed to Sam that George Quincy had parlayed his role in the revolution into political power and the accumulation of some wealth in the early days of the new union.

There was enough violence and upheaval connected to the inn and the area around it to explain the ever present low level activity, but there were no accounts of specific incidents that jumped out at Sam and helped him to identify 'horseback man' and 'Bess'. Hopefully Dean was having better luck at the town's library and records office.

He stood up with a weary sigh, rolling his shoulders and neck to ease the tension before picking up the stack of books and returning them to the shelves.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The large red haired man massaged his forehead with a calloused hand, fighting down the urge to vomit as nausea rolled through his stomach. His hangover would have abated by lunchtime if he hadn't continued to pour whiskey down his throat after he made it back to his rented house the night before.

This was too big a friggin' coincidence, and he didn't like coincidence. Especially not this one. It scared the crap out of him.

He had just pulled into the municipal building parking lot when he saw the sandy haired guy in the leather jacket climb out of the black muscle car and head into the building. He just saw him from the back, but it was enough to tighten his stomach in fear. There was a slight scuff mark on the back of the jacket where the shovel had hit it the night before. He'd been so freaked…and half blotto…if the guy hadn't dodged he might have killed him with the shovel. A shudder worked its way through him at the thought.

Did the guy know who he was? Was he going into the municipal building looking for him?

The big man in work coveralls pushed down the fear that made him want to just give his supervisor a call and tell him he was going home sick. If he did that he'd end up in his crappy little house having a heart attack, waiting for the cops to come to his door and arrest him for almost bashing the guy's brains in.

He climbed out of the township truck and walked to the building's glass front door. The hallway beyond the door was empty and he cautiously pulled it open. Township offices lined the hall, but there was no way of telling which one the sandy haired guy had disappeared into. He had to know if the guy was in the public works office. If he was…then Nate damn well better fork over some money for a quick get away. It was his damn brother-in-law's fault he got pulled into this mess to begin with.

His work boots squeaked on the linoleum floor as he walked down the hallway. His head was hanging, his hand covering the bottom of his face in a sorry attempt at disguise as he glanced into every office he passed. There was the usual hum of activity through each open doorway, but no sign of the leather jacket. The closer he got to the public works office at the end, the harder his heart started to beat.

He almost stopped dead in surprise when he saw the man inside of the office next to public works. His brain kicked into gear enough for him to keep walking until he was past the open doorway. He leaned against the wall there, doing his best to look inconspicuous while he listened to the conversation in the township records office. The guy in the leather jacket said he was with a title company, researching the records on a couple pieces of land because of a question on the title insurance.

Coincidence could kiss his big hairy ass. The guy was asking about Robbers Woods and the Benjamin. Damn. Maybe the guy didn't know who had hit him, but if he was asking questions about Robbers Woods and connecting it to the Benjamin, the shit could definitely be about to hit the fan. He turned around and retraced his steps to the parking lot where he wouldn't have to worry about any of the township clerks getting nosy.

The voice that answered his cell phone was gruff, impatient. "Yeah, yeah, Nate, it's me. Look, you gotta get ahold of Quincy…Hell no, man, you're the one who pulled me into this, you dick, YOU call him…Yeah, well there's something going on he should know about…"

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The inn felt deserted when Sam left the library and passed by the front desk on his way to the breakfast room and its coffee urn. It was a brilliant late fall day and the rest of the guests had probably scattered to enjoy it. His sneakers whispered over the wide wooden planks in the hallway, surprisingly easy to hear in the eerie stillness. The hush was so complete it almost felt like the building was holding its breath, waiting for something.

The coffee urn was hot and full, and the aroma of the strong brew permeated the air around him as Sam filled a mug. He winced when the spoon he used to stir the coffee hit the side of the mug with a loud clink that seemed to ring out in the silence. He felt like he was five years old again, lying in a motel bed with the covers over his head so that only his face was showing, Dean asleep in the bed opposite him. Absolutely convinced with the unimpeachable logic of a five year old that if he made the slightest sound, broke the silence at all, he would draw the attention of the monster under his bed.

He shrugged the feeling off and purposely hit the spoon repeatedly against the mug as he stirred. He wasn't five anymore.

But that didn't stop the hair on the back of his neck from standing on end when the clinking silverware was joined by other low murmurs of sound. Hushed voices, the clack of tankards against each other, faint strains of fiddle music. An undercurrent of sound drifted through the air around him, so faint he had to wonder if it was just exhaustion playing tricks with his senses.

The coffee mug was solid and real in his hand, and his fingers tightened around it when he turned to follow the whispers. He was glad for the connection to what he knew was real when he stepped onto the wide wooden planks of the old hallway.

He could feel the bulk of the old inn surrounding him, like it was a living thing. Silence pressed against his back, pushing him towards the thread of sound coming from beyond the tavern doors. The glass panes of the French doors were dark, the room beyond them still. And yet with each step he took towards them, the noises were a hair louder, a bit more distinct. The raised hair on the back of his neck was joined by goosebumps running down his arms.

But it was the smells that had his head spinning. Smoke, horses, the pungent odor of heavy work clothing that wasn't often washed, the yeasty smells of baking bread and the spices of mulled cider. They were rich, pungent, filling the air around him.

The air was heavier with each step, the line between what was now…and what had once been…blurring. His unease faded away and a small tingle of eagerness ran through him. They were waiting… She was waiting…

His hand was shaking when he grasped the handle of the door separating him from the laughter, from the voices, from his friends. He barely noticed the frigid feel of the metal under his hand as he pulled the door open slowly, drawing in a deep breath to calm jitters of anticipation. He let the breath out in a rush as he stepped through the doorway and the voices were raised in welcome for just the barest moment in time.

Silence crashed down around him, thudding into place almost as though it had weight and substance. He could hear his own soft footsteps on the wooden floor again. He could hear the soft tick of a grandfather clock across the room.

All he could smell now was furniture polish and the hint of some beer that must have been spilled and not completely wiped up the night before.

He stood just inside the doorway, feeling lost in the quiet darkness. The drapes were closed across the windows on the outside wall, the only light in the tavern coming from the hallway in back of him. It was enough to let him see that the room was empty and still.

He pulled out the same chair that Bob had sat on the day before and shakily lowered himself onto it. The coffee mug was dropped onto the tabletop roughly enough to slosh some of the liquid over the sides and onto the wood.

Sam placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his clenched fists. He was tired, his head was spinning, and the tension in his neck and shoulders was sending thumping pain across his skull.

What the hell was happening to him?

His eyes slid shut as he took a deep breath. Lack of sleep and worry over Dean the night before had apparently walloped him harder than he knew. It was difficult to keep his thoughts ordered. The strange interlude was already losing substance in his mind, the details becoming fuzzy enough for him to convince himself it was nothing more than the working of an overactive, and overtired, imagination.

His shoulders slumped as the muscles began to relax and he allowed himself to drift into a hazy half sleep. Into a deep daydream where soft warm fingers ran over the hard ridges of muscle on the back of his shoulders and massaged the remaining tension away. Where dainty hands pushed the long hair away from the back of his neck so that soft lips could kiss the sensitive skin there…could trail around to his lips leaving a ribbon of heat in their wake. Where his breath could quicken at a touch that was both foreign and hauntingly familiar.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** ummm…I think I'm starting to envy this ghost.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews and all the kind things you've had to say. This is so different from Hozho that I'm feeling my way along. One of the biggest differences is that Hozho was basically a finished story when I started posting it, and Highwayman isn't. I've always got it written to several chapters beyond where I'm posting, but I do a lot of tweaking on early chapters as the story evolves. It's got me scrambling a bit since I've already started posting.

Whew! That's just my long winded way of saying I hope it's all coming out okay and you like it.

As usual-to the people on the SFTCOL(AR)S board--you continually inspire me with your intelligent and well thought out discussions.

**Warning:** Cursing…and ghosts.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story.

From Chapter 3:

_Sam placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his clenched fists. He was tired, his head was spinning, and the tension in his neck and shoulders was sending thumping pain across his skull._

_What the hell was happening to him?_

_His eyes slid shut as he took a deep breath. Lack of sleep and worry over Dean the night before had apparently walloped him harder than he knew. It was difficult to keep his thoughts ordered. The strange interlude was already losing substance in his mind, the details becoming fuzzy enough for him to convince himself it was nothing more than the working of an overactive, and overtired, imagination._

_His shoulders slumped as the muscles began to relax and he allowed himself to drift into a hazy half sleep. Into a deep daydream where soft warm fingers ran over the hard ridges of muscle on the back of his shoulders and massaged the remaining tension away. Where dainty hands pushed the long hair away from the back of his neck so that soft lips could kiss the sensitive skin there…could trail around to his lips leaving a ribbon of heat in their wake. Where his breath could quicken at a touch that was both foreign and hauntingly familiar._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 4**

Damn…he didn't remember setting the alarm on his phone…

"Perhaps you should answer that?"

Sam's hands fell from his face and his eyes popped open. A pair of light brown eyes was staring at him from just a couple of feet away.

"JESUS!" The wooden chair under him almost tipped over as he jerked himself backwards, his back slamming into the wooden slats behind him.

"Well, not exactly. Although I was referred to as a god once or twice in my youth." Bob's face lit up at the memory as he settled himself against the back of his own chair. "You just missed a call," he said, pointing to the pocket of Sam's shirt.

Sam blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. The tavern was dark and quiet around him. He had a brief flash of noise and laughter, but it faded before he could capture the memory and he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to marshal his fuzzy thoughts. He remembered sitting down in the tavern, and not a lot more. Except for the remnants of a dream… Heat suffused his face and he glanced quickly at Bob, hoping his blush was hidden in the gloom. This was getting ridiculous. He was worse than a fifteen year old boy. "I guess I fell asleep." His voice was a little gravelly, sleep still thick in his throat. Twinges of dull pain in his elbows reminded him that he had been propped up in an awkward position for God knows how long. "What time is it?"

"A little after 4:00." Bob nodded at a mug in front of Sam. "I replaced your coffee with a fresh cup." He swirled his own mug under his nose and sniffed deeply, his eyes drifting heavenward. "Delores truly creates magic with coffee beans."

The coffee was strong and hot and Sam gulped some down, sucking in a quick breath when the liquid burned the inside of his mouth. If he had drunk the last cup when he poured it he might have avoided a twenty minute nap sitting at a table. "I'm sorry if I'm in the way of you opening," he said, indicating the empty tavern.

"No worries. Jennifer should be in to start setting up soon. We're only open in the evenings during the week." He gave a soft smile and looked around the old room. "I can certainly understand dozing off in here. This room has such a warm, calming, atmosphere at times."

Sam blew across the top of his coffee and took a tentative sip. "What time does the music start? I was surprised to hear it so late last night."

Bob's eyebrows went up. "Dear boy, if you heard music last night, then I can only assume that you have musicians in your head. We only rarely have music here on weeknights, and there was none last night."

"I guess I dreamed it," Sam said, his fingers tightening around the mug. A chill worked its way down Sam's spine. He seemed to be doing a lot of dreaming lately.

The innkeeper pointed at Sam's chest and gave Sam a questioning look. "Remember your phone was ringing." He tilted his head to the side and twitched his eyebrows suggestively. "Or are you playing hard to get? Giving Dino a run for his money?"

"My brother?" Sam's forehead wrinkled as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

Bob's mouth dropped open and he began to laugh. "My goodness! You really are brothers!"

Sam gave him an embarrassed grin as he hit redial on the missed call.

"_Sammy! Where were you? I just tried to call you."_

"Yeah, I know. Sorry I didn't pick up. I was talking to Bob."

"Technically, I think you were _sleeping_ with me when he called," Bob whispered.

"_Who is that? Bob? What did he say?_"

"Nothing! He didn't say anything." Sam shot the innocently grinning man a scowl and clutched the phone tighter to his face. "Where are you? Did you find anything yet?"

"_Right now I'm working my way through the documents section of the county library. I'm coming up with a lot of facts and figures about the area, and I'm seeing the Quincy name a lot, but I'm not finding shit to tell us who we've got to roast. How are you making out?"_

"Pretty much the same. I read a lot of stories about the history of the area, but nothing we can use."

"_We'll have to talk to that couple Bob told us about tonight. Look, I've got more to go through here, but I'm about an hour's drive from you. Maybe I'll quit now and you can come back with me tomorrow to finish it up._" Dean sounded hopeful. _"I don't want you to have to wait for dinner or anything."_

"I wouldn't think of dragging you away from the library just to get me dinner," Sam said, trying not to laugh. "I know how much you love all those books."

Bob began waving his hand in the air to get Sam's attention. "I insist you have some dinner with me!" he said with a huge grin.

"I'm going to eat with Bob," Sam added.

Dean's sigh was clear over the line. "_Yeah, okay. I'll probably grab some dinner when I'm done here. I'll call ya."_

"Okay. Take your time. You don't want to miss something important."

"_Yeah, yeah, I know how to do research." _Sam could see his brother's scowl as clearly as if Dean was standing in front of him. There was a pause and Dean's tone changed. The scowl had definitely been replaced by a smirk._ "And Sam? When I get back we'll discuss your sleeping with Bob."_

The call clicked off and Sam shook his head, glaring at Bob.

"Don't make faces, it causes wrinkles," Bob said as he stood up. "Come along, let's go raid the kitchen. I try to eat before the tavern opens and I get busy in here."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The massive ham sandwich Bob placed in front of Sam was easily twice as big as the one on Bob's plate. Bob looked at Sam's expression and rolled his eyes. "Handsome, I have no doubt that it takes a lot of fuel to keep that magnificent machine…" he flipped his hand up and down to indicate Sam's body "…running properly."

A loud growl rumbled from Sam's stomach and Bob flipped his hand over in a '_voila'_ gesture.

"Isn't this ham supposed to be for tomorrow's breakfast?" Sam asked as he wrapped his hands around the huge baguette.

"There's plenty in there." Bob nodded at the huge stainless steel refrigerator as he took a delicate bite of his own sandwich.

The inn's kitchen was roomy, a conglomeration of warm woods, shining stainless steel, and polished stone. The old and scarred oak table that the men were sitting at was pushed to the side, out of the way of the long expanse of counters and a large work island.

"And don't forget," Bob said, dabbing at the sides of his mouth with a napkin, "As scary as she can be, I'm actually Delores' boss." He glanced around the room to make sure they were alone and shuddered. "Just don't tell her I said that," he whispered. "Because she actually can be very scary at times."

Sam chewed thoughtfully for a couple of minutes before putting his sandwich down on the heavy stoneware plate in front of him. "Speaking of bosses…I don't get it." He kept his eyes on Bob's face. "Why are you being so friendly to Dean and I? You've already said your boss would do anything to make sure this land deal goes through. Aren't you afraid it's dangerous to be seen talking to us? At a minimum, couldn't you lose your job?"

Bob sighed. "Dangerous? Once upon a time I would have laughed at the idea. Now…I'm not so sure. I told you Richard liked to play in the real estate market. He had a lot of family money behind him, and quite frankly, he was enough of a snake to do very well at it. But recently, the market's in the toilet and I think he's taken some heavy losses. He's getting desperate, and desperate times…yada yada." He waved his hand through the air. "But he needs me. The Benjamin is the most secure part of Richard's wealth, and I'm the thing that makes the inn so valuable. Which he knows. Beyond that—and probably more importantly—I don't think he sees me as a threat," Bob shrugged.

"So you're really not afraid of losing your job."

"No, I'm really not. I almost wish I would, because that would make it much easier to take the next step." Bob gave him a little smile. "I've been saving my money, looking for an opportunity to buy my own inn. Nothing as grand as the Benjamin, of course," he sighed. He looked around the room, his smile softening. "I love this place, but I don't know if I can continue to work for Dick. I truly loathe the man."

"What about the Hancocks?" As Dean was quick to tell him, protecting people from human threats was not their gig. But Sam would have a tough time ignoring it if innocent people were in danger. "From what you said, they're the ones who have the best chance of stopping the deal. Do you think Richard could try to hurt them somehow?"

Bob snorted a quick laugh. "Oh, I'm sure he would if he could. But as big as the Quincy name is around here? So is 'Hancock'. Richard is walking a fine line trying not to alienate the rest of the town's selectmen. For political reasons they are content to sit back and let Richard and the Hancocks duke it out legally. But they are old and dear friends of the Hancock family. If anything happened to George or Margaret there would be such an uproar that the sale would die a quick death. And once again, more importantly, I don't think he sees the Hancocks as a true threat…more of an annoyance. They've been trying, but they still haven't come up with anything concrete about that piece of land. Nothing to stop the sale. And they're running out of time."

"You still haven't told me why you're being so helpful to Dean and I." Sam hated feeling like he was grilling the inn's manager, he truly liked the man. But John had spent a long time drilling it into him that you couldn't take people at face value. Dean had already been hurt on this hunt by a very human foe.

"It's simple, really. I like you, and I don't like him." Bob gave a quick laugh. "I am a surprisingly astute judge of people, and you and your brother…you're sure you two really are brothers? Because there's a level of ease and caring there that you don't normally—" He broke off and gave himself a little shake. "No matter," he said simply. "Anyway, you and Dean are good people, and Richard isn't. And you have wonderful timing."

Bob pasted a smile on his face. He may have been trying for 'devil may care', but the result was strained and sad. "I'm actually ready to blow this popsicle stand. Dick has really gotten impossible to work for. He's even started bringing around two Neanderthals that he hired in Boston. They are…'unpleasant' to deal with."

He dropped the fake smile and began playing with his napkin. "I'm not worried about myself or the Hancocks…but I'm worried about you and your brother. I'm familiar with the Institute you work for, and quite frankly…it's not a heavy hitter. It doesn't carry enough weight to deter Richard if he thinks you're a threat. I honestly can't tell you what he might do."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The muscles in Dean's back and shoulder were tight and sore, pulling with a harsh ache whenever he moved his left arm. Another muscle relaxant would definitely help, but it would also knock him out. He grimaced as he pulled the Advil bottle out of his jacket pocket and popped the top off with his right hand. He swallowed the pills dry before shoving the Impala's heavy door open with his leg and climbing out in the inn's parking area.

Driving his baby was one of life's pleasures, but he had spent a lot more time behind the wheel that day than he'd been planning on, and his muscles had stiffened up. The local records office had sent him to the county office, which was an hour away. The county office had sent him to the historic documents section of the county library's main branch.

His fingers had itched to call Sam and tell him he was coming to pick him up when he saw the layers of dust on top of those old record books, but he decided he couldn't justify the lost travel time. After his fifth sneezing attack he rethought his decision and called Sam. When they'd finally connected Sam didn't seem too receptive to the idea of a return trip to the library the following day.

If he was honest with himself, it wasn't just the daunting research that had him wishing Sam was at his side, and it wasn't just the travel time that prevented him from fetching his brother. Dean was flat out uncomfortable with leaving Sam alone at the inn for such a long stretch, and Sam would have figured that out if Dean had come back for him. And that would have put them on a road that Dean didn't ever want to travel again.

Dean had spent the last couple of months convincing Sam that he considered him an equal in the hunt. That he trusted him. He wasn't about to undo all that hard work.

The truth was, normally he did trust Sam as an equal on hunts. But this wasn't normally. Sam had been 'off' since they had gotten to the inn, and he didn't think Sam even realized it. So he'd kept his voice light all of the times he'd checked in with Sam, but he _had_ checked in numerous times throughout the day.

He'd felt like a parent who couldn't reach their teenager by phone when Sam hadn't picked up the one call. An uncomfortable mix of annoyance and worry churning in his gut. They had talked again, after Sam ate dinner, and that conversation had been more reassuring. Sam had mostly laughed through his account of the meal. He and Bob had discussed a couple of serious matters, but that had segued into an hour of gossip about the other guests and some of the town's residents. His brother's good cheer had relaxed Dean enough to allow him to stop for his own meal and spend some guilt free time flirting with a very attractive waitress.

He'd regretted spending the extra time in the restaurant on his way back to the inn, though. What tortured soul had decided it would be a good outlet for their unhappiness to share it with travelers in the state? He had tried to head directly back to the inn from the county seat and had spent a frustrating amount of time backtracking on the unfamiliar roads. Massachusetts road signs turned confusion into an art form. His favorite was the fork in the road with the sign directly in the middle of the split, and no indication of which side the sign referred to. Of course he'd ended up passing that particular sign twice. The whole series of events had conspired to get him back to the inn much later than he planned. He wouldn't have minded if it had been a productive trip, but he still didn't know who their horseman was.

The front room was warm and welcoming when he walked through, fires blazing on both sides and a small group gathered in one of the seating areas, talking and laughing. Dean paused before starting down the hallway to the tavern, carefully shrugging out of his jacket. His thermal Henley was loose enough to hide the gun in the back of his pants. He still didn't know who had come after him with the shovel, except that it was no lost spirit.

He stepped into the tavern and was surprised at how quiet it was in the room. Sam had said something about music playing around three in the morning, but this crowd didn't look like it would even be awake at three. There was no music playing tonight, just a quiet hum of conversation coming from the people sitting calmly at the bar and at tables. He moved to the edge of the bar and scanned the room, looking for his brother.

It took him a minute before he caught sight of a familiar pair of shoes. A familiar pair of large sneakers that were currently propped up on a wooden chair in the far corner of the room and not moving.

He edged farther into the tavern and his eyes searched the shadows in that corner. Sam's chair was wedged into the right angle of the walls and his head was leaning sideways, resting against the wooden beam next to him. Son of a bitch. Sammy was sound asleep.

A smirk worked its way across Dean's face as he headed across the room, aiming for his brother. He was trying to decide the most appropriate way to wake Sleeping Beauty when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Sweetheart, if you wake him up I swear to you I will find a way to make your life miserable." Bob edged in front of him and blocked his way with his eyebrows raised, just daring Dean to take another step.

Dean raised his hands in surrender and took a step backwards, wondering when, exactly, Bob had been appointed his brother's personal guard Chihuahua.

"Oh, thank God," Bob said, his shoulders slumping. "I was so afraid you'd call my bluff and then I had no idea what I was going to do." He took Dean's arm and turned him towards the bar. "You have got to make sure that poor boy is getting enough rest. I found him in here this afternoon, practically asleep at one of the tables. That's why I made your brother have dinner with me." He looked up at Dean's wide eyes and shrugged. "Yes, sweetie, I know you really are brothers. What a glorious gene pool," he sighed.

Dean's good humor edged into concern with the news that Sam was still a little off. He hadn't picked up on it during their phone calls. "What do you mean he was practically asleep? Did he seem okay?"

"He just seemed positively exhausted. Has he been checked for narcolepsy? He seems to have no problem falling asleep in these godawful uncomfortable chairs."

From his tone Dean suspected that the small man was only half joking. He wasn't about to explain that after a lifetime of constant traveling Sam was adept at falling asleep in the strangest places. He also didn't think it was any of the manager's business that Sam hadn't slept well the night before.

Bob didn't seem put off by Dean's lack of response. "You must meet George and Margaret Hancock," he continued as he urged Dean in the direction of a middle aged couple sitting at the bar.

The woman was tall and solidly built, light brown hair falling in waves onto the shoulders of her thick turtleneck sweater. Her husband matched her in height and solid build, but his tousled hair, wire rimmed glasses, and tweedy sport jacket gave him the look of a slightly absent minded college professor.

"George, Maggie, this is the other young man I was telling you about, Dean Collins." Bob leaned over and placed his mouth near Maggie's ear. "Didn't I tell you? Both of them!" The words came out in a breathy rush and Dean gave an embarrassed smile.

The Hancocks both had generous smiles and warm handshakes and Dean found himself hoping they weren't responsible for the man who had attacked him. He wanted to be able to like them.

"So Bob tells us you're researching local ghost stories," George stated with a smile.

Margaret's eyes searched Dean's face before she chimed in. "But from the timing…I think it's safe to assume this is not a random visit. I think you want to know about the spirit who scared the MacDougals off of the road near Robbers Woods."

Bob met Dean's glare with an innocent look. "I didn't share any details with them, they figured it out all on their own."

George spoke in a low voice. "Mr. Collins, believe me when I tell you that it is also in our best interests if the focus of your investigation remains under wraps for now. Richard Quincy firmly believes in the old adage 'forewarned is forearmed'. If he knew about your inquiries I have no doubt he would go to great lengths to stop you. He is determined to have this land deal go through."

"And you think the information Sam and I are digging up could stop him?"

"Oh, we KNOW it could stop him!" Margaret answered, practically bouncing on her seat. "There is a lot of anecdotal evidence that those woods are historically significant, but it's been tough to pin down verifiable details. If you could attach a specific name or story to that tract I'm convinced it would sway Jennifer and Vincent solidly onto our side. And once we have those two selectmen, it doesn't matter how far Phillip is under Richard's thumb, the town won't sell the land to him."

Bob leaned towards Dean and whispered. "Jennifer, Vinnie, and Phil are the town's selectmen. They are the grand poobahs when it comes to the town's business dealings."

"And of course we might be able to help you stop this spirit from causing any more accidents like the MacDougal's." George added as an afterthought.

"Actually the MacDougals were the third accident he's caused," Dean said with a small smile. "This morning my brother called the people involved in those two earlier crashes. Once they heard the MacDougals' version of what happened they both admitted they saw the same thing. They were afraid people would think they were crazy if they started talking about colonial men on horseback."

George had been leaning forward on his bar stool as they talked, but now he leaned back against the bar with a surprised smile. "Would it be terribly ghoulish of me to say that I feel like I just got an early Christmas present?"

Margaret clapped her hands together. "One person seeing the mystery ghost could be a crackpot. But three? So how did they describe him?"

The Hancock's excitement was contagious and Dean began to hope this might turn out to be a quick hunt with their research help. "Dark red—" He broke off when he noticed movement in the corner of the tavern. Dean turned to watch as Sam sat up, pulling his feet off of the chair and dropping them to the floor in front of him.

Sam didn't look like someone who had been sound asleep and had just woken up in a strange spot. There was no wide eyed grogginess or languid stretching. Dean stood up straighter when he realized that Sam looked like a coiled spring, his muscles bunched tight. His eyebrows were drawn down and he was staring into space, his face the picture of complete concentration. He rose smoothly to his feet and made a beeline towards the hallway door with no acknowledgement of the small group at the bar watching him.

Dean's eyebrows crept halfway up his forehead as he watched, wondering what the hell was going on. He gave Bob a small shrug before he turned to follow Sam.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Falling asleep had been the furthest thing from Sam's mind when he sat down to wait for his brother. But the fireplace warmed the tavern and gave it a cozy feel, the soft murmurs of conversation provided relaxing background music, and for some reason he felt as comfortable and at home in the tavern as he did in his room upstairs.

He sipped at his beer before glancing at his watch with a frown. Dean was late. Bob was buzzing around the tavern, talking to guests. He'd promised he would introduce Sam to the Hancocks as soon as they arrived. In the meantime there was nothing to distract him from the growing heaviness of his eyelids. He and Dean needed a vacation or something. One night of bad sleep shouldn't have left him feeling so wiped.

Sam settled himself back in the chair and leaned his head against the beam next to him with a heavy sigh. His limbs felt like they were coated with lead. Hell, his brain felt like it was coated with lead. The conversations around him were a soft buzz in his ears, lulling him to sleep.

_I thought Bob said they weren't going to have music tonight._

It was tough to tell how long he had dozed, but without opening his eyes it was obvious that the crowd had filled in, and was ready to have a good time. The voices were louder, the sound of tankards slamming onto wooden tables was constant, the laughter more raucous. And a violin player was doing justice to a slow Irish ballad.

Sam yawned and lifted his head, wincing at the twinge in his neck from the awkward position. He blinked his eyes trying to get them to focus past the haze of sleep.

Opening his eyes seemed to awaken all of his senses. He could smell the spices and heavy aroma of home brewed beer and mead and hard cider, the tinge of smoke from the roaring fireplace. The occasional snippets of conversation that made it to his ears were carried on in voices bearing accents that he couldn't place and using language that sounded like it came out of a historical romance novel. He looked around the room, taking in more detail. The varied rough clothing, the ragged public notices posted around the walls, the dirt…

And perhaps the most disturbing thing of all was that none of it seemed out of place. In the back of his mind a part of him was screaming that this had to be a dream…but it felt real, and it felt right.

His eyes lifted to the bar, drawn to the woman who stood there. She was watching him with a smile that hinted of secrets shared and he found himself climbing to his feet and walking towards her. The white linen cap on her head did little to contain her mass of black hair. It fell in waves down her back, and wisps of it escaped from the front of the cap, framing her heart shaped face. Her green dress was simple, suited more to working in the tavern than for use as Sunday finery. It fit tight through the bodice and flared below her waist, stopping above her ankles so she could carry things without tripping over it. The petticoats visible in the front were a simple white linen, matching the neckerchief tucked into the top of her bodice and covering the swell of her breasts.

A grey haired man stood with one foot up on a chair, his eyes closed and the fiddle under his chin. He was weaving a slow ballad through the air as Sam approached the woman. Heat flooded through Sam when she tilted her head and lowered her lashes over her dark eyes, giving him that look that always took his breath away.

The fiddle player leaned forward when Sam passed close to him. His eyes cracked open and he gave Sam a smile. "Claim your dance, Danny me boy," he whispered in a thick brogue. He straightened up and his chest puffed out as he took in a deep breath, pulling the bow off of the strings. He brought it back down in a rapid stroke and the strains of a lively Irish reel filled the room, bringing laughter and cheers from the crowd.

The young woman threw her head back and laughed as Sam reached his hands out to grasp hers and pull her away from the bar. He spun them both onto a cleared section of the wooden floor, his feet moving in a complicated pattern. There was no way he could know this dance, and yet he did…slides and kicks that the woman mirrored perfectly, her hand lifting her skirts slightly. Feet stomped and hands clapped in time to the music. Sam could feel his barriers falling as he was drawn into the heat of moment, the parts that made him Sam Winchester slipping away, if just for a little while.

He gave in to the temptation and wrapped his left arm around her waist, pulling her close. Holding her dainty left hand in his right he began to spin her around the room leaning forward and back in time to the music. She was much smaller than he was, but she fit perfectly against him. She was warm and real in his arms, down to the detail of him being able to feel the hard boning in the stays around her torso. A wave of dizziness went through him, and hot on its heels was the knowledge that this woman belonged in his arms.

Arms that were clothed in sleeves of claret velvet with lace dangling near his wrist. He knew what he was wearing without looking down. Brown doeskin breeches hugged tight to his legs…but that wasn't right. He was wearing jeans and a blue flannel shirt…

The wave of dizziness returned and he stumbled, the room shading to grey around him. Sounds faded and he felt a dull ache where his head leaned against the wooden beam. He shifted in his seat and his eyes opened slightly.

Dean was here, he was walking towards the bar with Bob…but that wasn't right. Dean wasn't…couldn't be… He fought to open his eyes, fear lancing through him when he felt himself pulled downwards once again.

His eyes opened slowly, revealing a darkened hallway in front of him. The sounds from the tavern were muted here, as though through a closed door. He took in a deep breath, trying to still his racing heart. This was wrong, this wasn't his time, this wasn't his place…this wasn't his dream.

And yet warmth flooded him when the dark eyed girl appeared in the hallway in front of him. He was in a small alcove, hidden in the shadow, and she didn't see him. He could stay hidden and let her pass by, and maybe this would be over. Maybe he'd be back with Dean in the tavern and he could tell his brother that they needed to get the hell out of Dodge. That something in the old building was screwing with him, and that he was getting sucked in deeper and deeper.

Maybe that would happen if he could just stop himself from grabbing her as she walked by. If he could stop himself from needing her, and wanting her. From feeling the love for her that curled through his soul.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the alcove with him. Her startled gasp turned into a soft laugh when he crushed her against him.

"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart," he said huskily, kissing her playfully.

"Daniel, are ye insane? My father would shoot you as soon as look at you! I thought he would have a fit when we danced."

"I'm after a prize tonight," he told her softly. "I shall be back with the gold before the morning light, then we'll fly and he'll have naught ta say." Sam had no control over the words he spoke, but the emotions coursing through him felt like his own. He wanted her to believe, he needed her to have faith in him.

She looked up at him, her delicate eyebrows raised. "And what daft plan have ye dreamed up this time, Daniel?"

His lips quirked up in a smile and she softened against him, raising a hand to run her fingers along his cheek as her dark eyes filled with worry. "I fear for you, love. I could not survive if I lost you."

A stab of pain twisted through him. He had lived through the type of anguish she feared once. It was something he never wanted her to feel.

He held her closer and his fingers were in her hair, brushing her cap aside. Perfumed waves cascaded over his hands and he buried his face in them, kissing the dark locks. His fingers skimmed the red ribbon woven into her hair, the elaborate knot that had been hidden by the cap, and he knew it was there for him. "If they press me hard and harry me through the day then look for me by the moonlight. I swear I will come back to you by the moonlight, Bess…though hell should bar the way," he whispered, his voice breaking.

She leaned back in his arms and fixed him with a steady gaze, her eyes dark with love and longing. "I will be waiting. No matter how long it takes, you know I will wait for you." Her hand went to the neckerchief enclosing the top of her dress and she pushed it aside, revealing a fine silver chain and the small oval locket it held. She reached around to the back of her neck and gave a little pull, untying the ribbon that held the ends of the necklace together.

Silently she pulled the necklace from around her neck. Sam kept his hands on her waist and held her steady as she stood on tiptoe and reached over his shoulders. She was trembling as she threaded the thin white ribbon back through the small rings on the ends of the silver chain and tied it securely. She tucked the locket into the neck of his shirt with a small sigh. He could feel the metal sliding into place against his skin and warmth spread out from it.

He pulled her tight against him again, his eyes filling with tears. He wanted to never let her go. She placed her hand on his chest over the locket with a small smile. "You will bring this back to me."

His head bent over hers, his lips brushing against the red ribbon in her hair. "Though hell should bar the way," he repeated his promise softly.

The pain that tore through him was sharp and hot, and Sam knew that this was the last time they would hold each other.

Sam's eyes flew open in the tavern and his feet thudded to the floor as he sat up. The red ribbon…

He knew that red ribbon. His fingers had touched it before. Snippets of last night's dream came to him, a dark haired beauty…with dark eyes. Not Sarah's green eyes. He hadn't been dreaming about Sarah. This woman was working her way into his soul more completely than the woman of flesh and blood that he had so recently held.

Thoughts of the dark eyed woman both thrilled and terrified him. Her face…he had seen her someplace, recently.

Sam rose smoothly to his feet, oblivious to his surroundings, and headed for the tavern door and the hallway beyond it. A wave of vertigo hit him when he reached the hallway, memories coming back to him of scents and sounds that had surrounded him in the afternoon and then promptly been forgotten.

He barreled forward, passing through the corner of the front room as he moved towards the small hall that led to the library. The book-filled room was dark, the fire going cold earlier in the night. Sam stood in the doorway, his hand searching the wall for the light switch. Light flooded the room and he blinked his eyes as they adjusted after the tavern's softer glow.

His gaze fixed on a point on the wall above a small writing desk and he moved slowly forward, ignoring the soft footsteps that entered the room behind him.

"Sam? Isn't it a little late for art appreciation class?" Dean's words were joking, but his voice was uneasy, concerned.

"Where's Bob?" Sam asked in a soft monotone.

There was a moment of silence before Dean answered and Sam turned his head to look at him. Dean's eyebrows were lowered, his face showing equal parts annoyance and worry. "Where's Bob?" he mimicked. "You got some secrets to share with your new best buddy that you can't tell me or something?"

Sam shook his head. If he'd had more energy he would have rolled his eyes at his brother's reaction. His gaze was drawn back to the painting of the dark eyed beauty on the wall. She was sitting on a wooden chair, turned partially to the side. Her pale blue gown was formal and low cut, her hair uncovered and pulled back from her face, a mass of dark waves flowing down in back of her shoulders. The artist had caught the warmth in her eyes and the slightly teasing quality of her half smile. Sam's breath caught and his throat tightened when he saw the red ribbon trailing from her fingers and over her lap. "Bob'll know who she is," he said softly, nodding at the portrait.

"Why, you looking for a date?" Dean bit out.

There was no way for Dean to know the lead weight that settled on Sam's chest at the comment, and Sam shook himself. He understood his brother's frustration. He was a little frustrated himself with his sudden inability to explain himself. "Dean, she's the woman…" he trailed off. "I've been seeing her," he finished quietly.

_A part of me is in love with her._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Anyone who is familiar with the Noyes poem will recognize parts of the hallway scene between Bess and her lover. I tried to borrow some of the words without it sounding too much like...a poem.

When Dean thinks about the couple of months spent convincing Sam that he is considered an equal on hunts, he is referring to events in my story 'Hozho'.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** As always, your reviews and nice comments mean the world to me. I hope you're enjoying the story. This chapter picks up exactly where the last one left off.

**Warning:** Cursing…and ghosts.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story.

From Chapter 4:

_Sam shook his head. If he'd had more energy he would have rolled his eyes at his brother's reaction. His gaze was drawn back to the painting of the dark eyed beauty on the wall. She was sitting on a wooden chair, turned partially to the side. Her pale blue gown was formal and low cut, her hair uncovered and pulled back from her face, a mass of dark waves flowing down in back of her shoulders. The artist had caught the warmth in her eyes and the slightly teasing quality of her half smile. Sam's breath caught and his throat tightened when he saw the red ribbon trailing from her fingers and over her lap. "Bob'll know who she is," he said softly, nodding at the portrait._

"_Why, you looking for a date?" Dean bit out._

_There was no way for Dean to know the lead weight that settled on Sam's chest at the comment, and Sam shook himself. He understood his brother's frustration. He was a little frustrated himself with his sudden inability to explain himself. "Dean, she's the woman…" he trailed off. "I've been seeing her," he finished quietly._

_A part of me is in love with her._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 5**

"You've been _seeing_ her? You mean you saw her in your room? You saw her in a dream? Give me something to work with here, Sam, because I'm not sure what you're saying." Dean's words were clipped. It was obvious he was trying hard to keep his voice level.

"I just…I don't _know_ what's happening, Dean." Sam lifted his hands, running them both through his hair in a frustrated swipe. "At first, last night, I woke up and saw her in my room and I thought it was a dream…but it was too real." He shook his head, his face twisted in confusion. "And it just happened in the tavern now, too." Sam turned to his brother with his eyebrows raised. "You were in the tavern, did you see anything?"

"No, dude. You were just sleeping. Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?" Dean's voice went from annoyed to patient, as though he could see how much the entire situation was getting to his brother.

"It's not a dream, at least, not a normal dream. When it happens…I don't know…it's like I'm in the past. I'm in this building, but it looks like it did a couple of hundred years ago. Everyone is dressed different, they talk different." Sam broke off with a grimace. He clenched his hands into fists, hoping his brother didn't see the slight shake. "Dean, when it's happening it's like there's someone else inside of me, or I'm inside someone else." Sam saw the sudden wariness that crept into his brother's stance, the tightening of his features.

"If it happened last night, why am I just hearing about this now, Sam? Is that why you didn't sleep? I asked you about it, Sam. I asked you. And you didn't tell me anything." Dean looked away for a second, his face working.

He squared his shoulders and brought his gaze back to Sam. "You're teetering on the edge of possession and I don't know anything about it?" Dean's expression was controlled, but his voice held a tinge of accusation.

"It's not like that, Dean. It's not like with Ellicott," Sam said quietly. "Look, man, I just don't know how to describe it." He looked at the floor, gathering his thoughts. "It feels like it's all real, like I'm playing somebody else's part in things that actually happened a couple of hundred years ago. I know things that I shouldn't know, and I…I feel things that I shouldn't feel." His throat tightened and he cleared it before he continued.

Sam wagged his finger back and forth between the painting and himself. "She's always there, and I know we're lovers." He locked eyes with Dean, hoping his brother would see the truth on his face. "I didn't tell you about this before because I couldn't, Dean. I didn't remember any of the details until now, when it happened again in the tavern. Maybe I should have said something as soon as I started thinking things felt a little weird…but Dean, come on man, weird is par for the course with us." Sam could hear the shakiness in his own voice, and he knew Dean heard it too.

Dean's face loosened, the anger sliding away. Sam would have welcomed a smartass comment at that point, but for once his brother seemed to be at a loss for words. He wanted Dean to put it all into perspective with a couple of his usually disturbingly accurate wisecracks. But it seemed like even Dean couldn't lighten the situation, and to Sam that meant he was right. Something was truly screwing with him. And he hadn't even told Dean the best part yet.

Sam looked down at his jeans and the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "And, I think I know whose part I'm playing in these scenes." His voice dropped lower with each word, until Dean unconsciously took a step closer, listening.

In the alcove, standing with her, the last piece had fit into place. He must have been dressed, ready to ride, when he talked to her. It was the first time he could feel the high leather boots that rose to the middle of his thighs. "Dark red velvet coat, lace, thigh high boots…it's the horseman."

Dean's mouth dropped open and he snapped it shut, shaking his head. "Thigh high boots and lace? You're killing me here, Sammy. So many comments I could make, but it would just be too easy," he muttered and then sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

It was strangely comforting to know that Dean was regaining his equilibrium enough to be tempted to start throwing abuse his way. Sam could see the change come over Dean when the hunter came to the forefront—thinking, analyzing—and the scared big brother at least temporarily backed off.

"It makes sense," Dean finally said. "You felt a connection to this guy out on the road last night, right?" He waited for Sam to nod before he continued. "And the first time you had an encounter with the girl was after that?" Dean's eyes narrowed at a sudden thought. "What about the thing that happened in your room before that, the weird feeling you told me about when we first got to the woods last night?"

"That first time was nothing compared to the encounters after that," Sam answered, thinking back. He felt a little of the tension in his shoulders ease now that they were looking at the incidents as part of the job, turning them into a puzzle that he and his brother could solve. "It's like…I don't know…maybe I picked up a connection to her when I was in the room the first time, and that's what drew the horseman to me on the road last night."

"And then vice versa. He latched on to you somehow, and when you came back here, that started triggering everything with her. Geez, you're like a psychic online dating service." Dean was trying to lighten things up, but Sam had seen the way his mouth twisted when he mentioned the horseman 'latching onto' him. Been there, done that, and it hadn't been pretty.

"It's really not like last time, Dean," Sam reassured him quietly. "I'm not walking around with him controlling me. I'm just seeing stuff that happened to him."

"So what do you want to do?" Dean asked. His eyes were running up and down Sam's form, assessing him, trying to get a feel for his state of mind.

It was a quintessentially 'Dean' reaction that Sam recognized and that he found comforting under the present circumstances. "I don't think we have a choice, Dean. This guy is going to end up killing someone if we don't stop him. And I feel like we should…I don't know…help these two find some peace." He held in a grin when Dean rolled his eyes at that comment. "We've got the connection to figure this out now, I say we use it."

Dean gave a short nod. "Okay, but if this feels like it's getting to be too much, just say the word and we're out of here." He made sure he had Sam's attention and continued speaking slowly and clearly, emphasizing each word. "And Sam, if I don't like the way things are going, I'm pulling the plug. And if I feel, just once, that you're not being completely honest with me, I'll drag your ass away from here so fast you won't know what hit you. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam agreed.

"Okay, then!" Dean grinned and Sam got the feeling his brother was suppressing the urge to rub his hands together. "Let's get Bob and find out who the mystery woman is." He headed for the door and stopped suddenly, turning to face Sam. The grin was gone. "Dude, you're not off the hook. You've still got to tell me every detail you remember about these…'episodes'. I know you're not telling me everything." He didn't wait for a reply before continuing on his way back to the tavern.

Sam kept his eyes on the open doorway for a moment before turning back to look at the painting. He wasn't looking forward to the part of the conversation when he had to admit that he didn't know if his time with her in his room last night was something from the past, or something that had happened between the two of them in the here and now.

And how, exactly, was he supposed to tell his brother that something inside of him was in love with a woman who had been dead for over two hundred years?

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

"That lovely young woman, dear boys, is Elizabeth Benjamin. The daughter of the inn's original owner."

"Bess," Sam said softly.

Bob gave a little shrug. "I'm not sure—"

"Yes, she was called Bess, actually," George Hancock interrupted. He looked at Bob's raised eyebrows. "It's what Catherine calls her in the journals."

Bob reached a hand up to caress the painting's frame. "Isn't the portrait wonderful? It was painted by Catherine Quincy, the wife of the inn's second owner. She was Elizabeth's best friend. Of course it was painted well before Catherine married into the illustrious Quincy family." Bob drew out the word 'illustrious', turning it into a parody. "Catherine didn't marry Quincy until after Elizabeth…" He trailed off, just staring at the woman in the painting. "Such a tragic story," he said softly.

Dean eyed Sam, expecting him to grab the thread and start working it. Historical research was his forte. His eyes narrowed with worry when Sam continued to just stare at the portrait. "Why do you say that?" Dean finally asked when Sam remained mute.

"She was killed when a troop of redcoats tried to ambush a notorious highwayman here at the inn. Caught in the crossfire somehow," Bob answered, tearing his eyes from the portrait to look at Dean.

Dean took a step closer to Sam. He had seen the slight movement when his brother had allowed his weight to slump against the back of the couch that his hip had only been lightly leaning against a moment before. Sam's face looked pale and his voice was soft. "Did she have a lover?"

The Hancocks both threw startled looks his way and Bob choked on a quick laugh. "I don't know why you're asking, but it's certainly one of the more interesting questions I've gotten from someone about that painting."

"He's asking because the MacDougals said that the apparition they saw asked for 'Bess'. The most common scenario for the spirit to be seeking her is if they were lovers," Dean explained.

Sam shook himself and turned to the rest of the group. "So if we know who she was involved with, we might be closer to identifying the horseman."

Bob's mouth curved into a small, sad, smile and he brought his hand to his chest. "He's seeking a lost love?" He sighed softly. "The way Richard tells the story she was to marry his ancestor, George Quincy." He waved his hand dismissively. "Personally I think it was just because George wanted the inn. It worked out just fine for him, though, when Elizabeth died. Elizabeth's father was so heartbroken he ended up selling the inn to George. The Quincys truly bring to life the old saying about falling into a pile of manure and coming out smelling like a rose." He scowled at the thought. "But I digress. I don't know who she might have been having a dalliance with. I don't care what Richard says, I doubt it was George Quincy."

"Definitely not Quincy," Margaret said dryly. "The Historical Society has some of Catherine's journals in its possession. According to them, Elizabeth thought George Quincy was much like Richard. A bit of a weasel. Unfortunately we were never able to find Catherine's journal from the time when Elizabeth died. I have a feeling that journal would answer a lot of questions—"

"Like why Catherine married a man she considered slime on two legs?" Bob interrupted.

"Yeah, that," Margaret laughed "But also who Elizabeth was involved with. When you really look at other accounts from that period it's obvious that she was in love with someone."

"What about you two? You've studied this stuff. Any idea who it was?" Dean directed his question to the Hancocks. He stole a quick glance at his brother. Sam was looking at the portrait again, and Dean had the feeling that Sam already knew the answer.

George put his arm around his wife's waist and the couple shared a soft smile. "The two of us do have a theory. This is where it truly gets sad. We believe she was killed in the crossfire when the redcoats were actually trying to ambush her lover, Daniel Reilly."

Dean would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at Sam. His brother's eyes squeezed shut and his face contorted at the name. A chill worked its way down Dean's spine when he saw the glint of tears in Sam's eyes when he reopened them.

"The Highwayman?" Bob asked wide eyed. "If that's true, then he was a pretty heartless fellow. That poor girl."

Sam's head snapped towards the inn manager. "Why do you say that?" he asked quietly.

"Daniel Reilly was the most infamous of the local highwaymen. He was the Robin Hood to their Merry Men. But he hightailed it out of here after he got the poor girl killed. On to bigger and better things. The way I've heard it, there are numerous reports of Daniel Reilly being seen in Boston several months later, keeping company with other women and having a grand old time with the rest of his band of merry men. None of them ever came back to these parts."

Sam shook his head slowly. "That doesn't make sense."

"Well, if it was his shot that accidentally killed—" Bob started.

"That's not what he means," Dean cut in. He'd seen Sam's body stiffen at Bob's words and wanted to stop that line of reasoning in its tracks. "He means it doesn't make sense for Reilly's ghost to be appearing out on the road if he left and never came back." He had a pretty good hunch that that WASN'T what Sam meant, but it was a reasonable enough explanation to give the others.

"Well…if you think it could help, Catherine Quincy also painted a portrait of Daniel Reilly. It's hanging in the Historical Society's reading room. Maybe the MacDougals could look at it?" Margaret was looking at Sam with an intensity that raised the hair on the back of Dean's neck. It only lasted for a second before she turned to Dean with her eyebrows raised and he wondered if he'd imagined it. "I mean, does this ghost stuff work that way?" she asked.

Dean made a quick decision. "We don't really need to bother the MacDougals about it yet…Sam and I both saw him too."

"Really?!" Margaret Hancock's voice had that thrilled 'tell me a ghost story' tone that was usually reserved for around the campfire.

"And you didn't tell me?" Bob swatted at Sam's arm.

Sam didn't seem to notice. He was too busy staring at Dean.

"I know we didn't get a good look, Sam," Dean started, quirking an eyebrow at his brother, "but let's check out the picture. There's a chance we'll be able to tell if it's him." He turned to the Hancocks. "And you said you've got Catherine's journals? When do you think we could get a look at everything?"

George looked down at his watch. "Margaret and I have a bit of night owl in us. I don't see why we couldn't go right now. I mean, if that's okay with you?"

Dean met Sam's stare. "The sooner the better as far as I'm concerned."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Dean allowed silence to fill the car for a portion of the ride. He finally gave up on the patient approach as they were passing through Robbers Woods and demanded the details of Sam's encounters with the inn's spirits. If Sam's slow and hesitant recitation was any indication, he was telling the truth when he said some of the details were hazy. Hazy or not, there was enough detail to make it look like Reilly was their man.

Some of the encounters really did sound like Sam was just a hitch hiker, seeing the past through Reilly's eyes. But other encounters…it sounded like Bess's spirit was a little confused. She seemed to think Sam, _his_ Sam, here in 2006, was her long lost lover. And Reilly's influence was making sure Sam responded. Dean didn't want to think about how much that would screw with his brother's head.

By the time Sam's words sputtered to a halt as they neared the outskirts of the town, Dean couldn't ignore the cold ball of unease sitting in his belly. With Sam sometimes it wasn't so much what was said, it was more what wasn't said. He had those lawyer instincts. The kid didn't like to lie, not to family, so he'd dazzle you with so much bullshit that you'd lose track of the things he _hadn't_ said.

He'd just told Dean about dancing, and touching, and conversations that sounded like the words of lovers, but he never once mentioned emotions. Coming from Emo Boy, that omission spoke volumes and had Dean's gut churning. Sam knew as well as Dean did that the 'feelings' projected by a spirit could be an important piece of information.

"When you told Bob that it didn't sound right for Reilly to run off, what did you mean? Because from what you've told me so far, it doesn't sound like he had too much going with this chick other than good times and empty promises." Dean kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him until the silence had dragged on for a bit. When he glanced over, Sam was staring into his lap. "Sam?"

Sam raised his eyes to look out the windshield, his face painted with sadness. "He wouldn't have run off like it didn't matter to him. He was in love with her."

"And you know this because…?"

"Because I…feel it during these 'encounters'. I can feel how much he loved her. She was everything to him." Sam's voice was low, thick with emotion. "There's no way he would have run to Boston like it didn't matter if she died in an ambush meant for him. When that happened…it would have killed him."

Oh hell. Damn damn damn. He hadn't even realized the parallels to Jessica's death. He kept his voice steady. "You said you 'feel it'. It fades away when the encounter is over, right?"

Sam turned his head away, looking at the dark streets passing by the outside of the passenger window as they followed the Hancocks through the town.

Crap. "You're not…Sam, you know it's not your emotions right? It's not you who's in love with her. Christ! You've never even met her! She's been dead for over two hundred years!"

"Don't you think I know that Dean?!" Sam exploded, snapping around to face Dean. "It's crazy! Christ, I know that! But it's…complicated." He said the last more calmly and turned his head to look through the windshield. "It's complicated," he repeated softly.

"Is it getting mixed up with Jessica in your head?" Dean tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, really wishing he didn't have to take the conversation where it needed to go. "I mean…because of the way Bess died…"

He trailed off when Sam began to slowly shake his head. He looked at Dean with a small half smile, acknowledging how tough this kind of talk was for his older brother. "No, it's not that. At least I don't think it is. In fact, I thought it was Sarah I was dreaming about at first." The smile widened. It was just for a second, but it was there, and a little of the ice in Dean's belly began to melt.

"Sarah, huh?" Dean tilted his head to the side, his face screwed up in thought. "Yeah, I could see it. Same general look as Sarah. Who, by the way, is real…flesh and blood…"

"I know it's just Reilly's lingering emotions," Sam said, ignoring his brother. "But they're strong, Dean. Really strong. No way he just ran off."

"Then I guess we better find out what did happen to him."

They followed the Hancock's SUV into the small parking lot nestled next to a red Federal style building. An ornate sign proclaimed that it was the "Winslow House" and stated the hours that the Historical Society offices were open.

George gestured for them to follow the couple inside. They stood by the front door as Margaret walked down the center hall, flipping switches as she went. "I'll put on a pot of coffee," she called over her shoulder. "George, can you show them the reading room and start pulling some of the books that might help? And then maybe you can come help me with the coffee?"

"Yes dear," George called after her before turning to the brothers with a smirk. "Learn that phrase before you get married gentlemen. It'll save you a lot of grief in the long run."

He led them into a spacious room on the left side of the center hall, turning on the overhead lights as they entered. It was lined with bookshelves and held two library style tables with chairs. Old charts and documents were scattered around the room, hanging on the walls in glass fronted frames. Glass cases held ancient looking books, some open to display pages, and some lined up so that only their spines were visible.

There was a sense of history to the room that made it feel like everything should be coated with a layer of dust. Instead, every surface gleamed and the glass sparkled.

George pointed to a set of small brown leather books lined up side by side in one of the cases. "Those are Catherine's journals."

"Won't we damage them if we handle them?" Sam asked with a frown.

"They've been treated very well, I think they'd hold up to some gentle use. But it doesn't really matter. We'll be using these." He bent down in front of one of the open shelves and pulled out several books. They were also leather bound, but considerably newer than the versions in the case. "My grandmother counted Catherine Quincy among her ancestors and was fascinated by her. She transcribed the journals into these volumes so that they would be available to read without risking the originals." He set the books on one of the tables and ran a gentle hand over the cover. "Catherine truly was an amazing woman for her time. A talented artist, writer, outspoken, the mayor's daughter, and a loyal friend to Elisabeth Benjamin."

"The mayor's daughter and a tavern owner's daughter? That seems like a strange pair," Dean commented as he opened a cover and his eyes began to skim the page. He could see Sam out of the corner of his eye, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to see the painting of Daniel Reilly. Dean knew exactly how he felt, but he was hoping they'd have a chance to see it without an audience.

"Inns and taverns in those days were different than today," George explained. "Much of the political and social life of the town revolved around them. The owner was generally a person of some influence and importance. The Benjamin served travelers on the road to Boston and was not quite as formal as the tavern located on Anderson Street near the church, but still John Benjamin held a respected position. Losing his daughter the way he did…tragic. Ironically, the event that destroyed his life also gained him a great deal of political influence."

"Why is that?" Sam stopped his impatient twitching and fixed the historian with an intense stare.

"The detachment of British troops had been sent here to take care of the highwaymen haunting Robber's Woods. It was not a popular move with the colonists in this area. Not at all. Those young men were folk heroes around here, most of them were local boys. When Elizabeth was killed during the botched attempt to capture Daniel Reilly it caused a huge uproar. The detachment went back to Boston not long after that, and the Benjamin became the hotspot for talk of revolution."

"I read a bit in the Benjamin's library about George Quincy," Sam said. "He seemed to do pretty good for himself during those times."

"Quincy worked for Benjamin before Elizabeth died and basically took everything over afterwards. The position gave him a lot of influence, and he put it to use for himself. He was a shrewd character. With his connections he knew what would be in demand when, and he placed his money accordingly."

"It's nice to know someone benefited from Bess' death," Sam muttered, the flash of anger plain on his face.

"George, I could use a hand, dear." Margaret's voice drifted to them from somewhere in the rear of the house and George gave them an embarrassed smile.

"Duty calls," he said as he headed out of the room.

Dean examined his brother's face. His lips were twisted, spots of color glowing high on his cheeks.

"Spill," Dean demanded.

"Remember all the anger, the sense of betrayal, I first felt from Reilly out on the road? I can't tell you how I know, but it's tied in to George Quincy."

"Are you feeling your own anger now…or Reilly's?" Dean asked, his eyes searching Sam's face. "Cause I gotta tell ya, dude, I'm not real happy if these are his emotions you're channeling. If I start to think he has one little bit of control over you, we're out of here."

Sam rocked back slightly on his heels, his face going blank.

Dean raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Didn't think of that, did you geek boy? You've got to get clear on when it's you and when it's leftovers from Reilly, dude. If not, he's controlling you."

"Point taken," Sam said softly. He turned away and started walking the room's perimeter, examining the items hanging on the walls. He stopped suddenly and drew himself up to his full height, his muscles tight. "Dean." His voice was a choked whisper.

Dean moved to stand at Sam's shoulder and looked at the painting on the wall. He felt like someone had punched him in the chest, the air leaving his lungs in a silent _whoosh_. "Holy crap," he said softly when the ability to breathe returned to him.

The man in the portrait was standing next to a bay horse, his hand resting on its shoulder. He was obviously tall, with broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips. The wine red coat and ruffled shirt were nowhere in evidence, but the doeskin breeches fit him like a glove and the high boots were a smooth dark leather. His white linen shirt hung loose, open at the neck. Dark wavy hair was tied back in a ponytail, the edge of a black ribbon visible in the portrait.

He was much younger than they expected, maybe in his early twenties. Reilly's face was lit by a wide smile, his dimples deep crescents in his cheeks. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks and jaw smooth, and there was a slight cleft to his chin. His skin looked lightly bronzed by the sun with a bit of ruddiness in his cheeks. The artist had captured a glint of green in his dark eyes.

"We realized the resemblance as soon as we mentioned the portrait," Margaret's voice said softy from in back of them. "We didn't want to say anything until you saw the painting. And now, comparing you side by side…" her voice trailed off.

Daniel Reilly was not a long lost identical twin…but his resemblance to Sam was uncanny.

Dean murmured softly enough for the words to carry only to his brother. "Well, we know why Bess thinks you're him."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thank you so so much for your continued support. I'm sorry this update was delayed by a couple of days. I lost some solid chunks of time to the station over the last few days, including a couple of working fires that ate up two nights.

**Remember**—we get two hours of Supernatural tomorrow night! Make sure you watch, and DVR or Tivo it and watch again within 3 days so we can get some solid ratings!!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 5:

_The man in the portrait was standing next to a bay horse, his hand resting on its shoulder. He was obviously tall, with broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips. The wine red coat and ruffled shirt were nowhere in evidence, but the doeskin breeches fit him like a glove and the high boots were a smooth dark leather. His white linen shirt hung loose, open at the neck. Dark wavy hair was tied back in a ponytail, the edge of a black ribbon visible in the portrait._

_He was much younger than they expected, maybe in his early twenties. Reilly's face was lit by a wide smile, his dimples deep crescents in his cheeks. His cheekbones were high, his cheeks and jaw smooth, and there was a slight cleft to his chin. His skin looked lightly bronzed by the sun with a bit of ruddiness in his cheeks. The artist had captured a glint of green in his dark eyes._

"_We realized the resemblance as soon as we mentioned the portrait," Margaret's voice said softy from in back of them. "We didn't want to say anything until you saw the painting. And now, comparing you side by side…" her voice trailed off._

_Daniel Reilly was not a long lost identical twin…but his resemblance to Sam was uncanny._

_Dean murmured softly enough for the words to carry only to his brother. "Well, we know why Bess thinks you're him."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 6**

Sam stared out the windshield, his eyes fixed on the cone of light in front of them as the Impala's headlights led them around the curves. The radio was silent, the deep rumble of the Impala's motor and the hum of the tires on the road the only music as both brothers followed their own thoughts. He was bone tired but he had a feeling his brother was the winner in the discomfort contest. The long day and extended driving times hadn't been kind to the bruised muscles in Dean's back and shoulder.

Sam bit back on his frustration. His suggestion that Dean give up the keys and allow Sam to drive them back to the inn had been met with a dismissive smirk. Nothing new there. Dean's "I'm good" wasn't exactly a huge surprise either. Now Dean was sitting awkwardly behind the wheel, his left hand holding the bottom of the steering wheel while his left arm remained against his side, rarely moving. Sam didn't think Dean even realized just how noticeably he was grimacing every time he had to move that arm.

At least the trip into town had been worth the late night of research. He wasn't sure if it was reassuring or eerie that his 'shining' wasn't the only reason that Bess had been attracted to him, getting this whole ball of wax started. The resemblance to Reilly…well, as far as he and Dean could figure out it was just a freak coincidence. The kind of warped luck that sometimes seemed to dog the Winchesters. Although Dean also seemed fond of the theory that a notorious highwayman was a distant ancestor. Sam preferred those simple theories to the more convoluted pathways his mind might take. The pathways that had labels like 'fate' and 'destiny'. No, he definitely preferred the idea of coincidence. He refused to dwell on the fact that he didn't really believe in coincidence.

The rest of the time in the reading room had been spent pouring through books and papers. Catherine Quincy's journals and other written accounts from that time, supplemented by the Hancock's wealth of knowledge, had given them a lot to think about. The county library had supplied Dean with dry facts—the name of the man who had owned the land encompassing Robber's Woods—the Hancocks filled in the interesting parts. The man was a Tory, enraged by the use of his land by 'dirty thieves'. It went that way the whole time they were there. Bare facts transformed into the rich picture that they would need to figure out, and end, this haunting.

Sam was amazed at how biased the information contained in the Benjamin's library was. Apparently, through the years the Quincy family members who had chosen tomes for the library had limited themselves to accounts that presented their ancestors in only the most favorable light. Painful subjects had been avoided. He had seen no mention of Elizabeth Benjamin's fate, or Daniel Reilly, anywhere in the inn's library.

"I still don't buy it," Sam said, rubbing his eyes. "I know people said they saw Reilly and the rest of the men in Boston, but I just don't buy that they all went there and then decided to act like a bunch of frat brothers, hanging out together and partying."

"What I don't get is why none of them ever came back to this area after the British troops left. Or…hell, why not after the war? This was their home and the people here thought they were heroes. Why not come back?" Dean glanced at the rear view mirror with a frown. He lifted his right hand to angle it slightly, his frown deepening.

"Dude! You got a pissed off husband after you or something? That's about the tenth time you've played with the damn mirror!"

Dean dropped his hand back to the top of the steering wheel, but his eyes kept straying upwards, searching the road behind them. "There's been some headlights behind us for a while."

"Uh…Dude? Public road?"

"Uh…Dude? I know that!" Dean shot back, mimicking his brother's tone. "But it's pretty friggin late, and it's just been us and them for a while. They were keeping a steady distance until we started getting close to the curves, then it looked like they punched it. They were gaining fast."

Sam turned around in his seat, looking out the rear window. "Any sign of them now?"

"Not since the road started to twist. I can't see that far behind us."

A soft light began to illuminate the curve directly in back of them, getting noticeably stronger as Sam watched. He got a glimpse of bright headlights rounding the bend just before the continuing twist to the road cut off his view. "They're right behind us and hauling ass," he reported, his voice tense. His brother's unease was seeping into him. Dean sometimes had an uncanny ability to sense approaching danger.

They reached a short straight stretch and the lights barreled around the curve behind them, high beams blinding Sam. He couldn't make out any details of the vehicle hidden behind the glare, but from the size and placement of the headlights he would guess they had a large pickup on their tail.

"What the hell are they doing?" Dean growled, his eyes flicking back and forth between the mirror and the dark road in front of him. He lifted his left arm so that both hands had a secure grip on the top of the wheel, grunting with the effort of moving the reluctant limb.

The truck continued to gain on them, the headlights growing larger until they filled the back window. Sam raised his hand, trying to block the glare as he squinted, trying to see past the lights. He decided his original estimate was wrong. It wasn't a large pickup, it was freaking huge.

Dean pushed harder on the accelerator and Sam started to worry they might fly off of the road on one of the curves without any help from the truck behind them. The pickup was undeterred by the increased speed. It stayed with them, continuing to edge closer.

"Hold on Sammy!" Dean bit out when a collision seemed inevitable. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.

The lights veered suddenly to the left, the truck pulling into the opposite lane.

Sam contorted in his seat, leaning over the back of it and trying to see into the cab of the truck now that the glare was no longer in his face. There was always the chance its occupants were nothing more than a couple of drunken teenagers.

The truck continued to overtake them, moving up next to them. Its side was a solid black wall outside of the Impala's windows, broken up only by a fancy silver trim. If they met a car coming in the other direction the crash would take all three vehicles out in a spectacular fashion.

Sam hauled the top half of his body back into the front seat, his heart hammering in his chest as he plopped back down onto his butt. His brief fantasy of relatively harmless teenagers began to fade when the truck stopped edging forward, matching its speed to theirs.

They were rapidly approaching the next twist in the road, one that would put the Impala on the outside of the curve. The perfect spot for the truck to force them off of the road. The tree trunks flashing by outside of the windows looked solid and unforgiving.

Dean began to curse under his breath, a nonstop litany, and Sam braced himself, knowing what was coming.

"Hold on!" Dean's voice was cold and vicious. He slammed his foot onto the brake pedal and the Impala began to skid, its heavy black body trying desperately to fishtail and send them into the woods.

The truck shot past them, unable to counter their move quickly enough to stay even with them. It roared into the curve in front of them and Sam was almost surprised when he didn't hear a tremendous crash after it disappeared around the bend.

One of the Impala's rear tires went off of the road as they reached the bend, digging into the earth there. Dean fought the wheel, controlling the forces trying to pull the car further to the right. If both right tires hit the soft shoulder on the curve, at this speed the car could flip.

Sam's arms shot out as he tried to brace himself in the shaking car.

The rear tire popped free of the soft dirt and bumped back onto the road, and the Impala slewed sideways. Sam collided solidly with his door, wincing as him arm took the brunt of the impact. Yep, that was gonna leave a mark.

They groaned to a halt, turned sideways across the road. Silence ruled within the dark car for a moment while both brothers caught their breath.

"You okay?" Dean grunted.

"Yeah. You?"

"Oh, I'm freakin peachy," Dean ground out, his right hand massaging his left shoulder. "And I'll be doing even better when we catch up and beat the shit out of them." He threw the car back into drive and eased forward, straightening them out on the road before punching the accelerator.

Sam was thrown back in his seat as the large black car surged forward. "Dean…just guessing here…but wrapping us around a tree might make it tough to catch them," he said through gritted teeth.

"What…this?" Dean said nonchalantly "this is nothing." He flashed an evil grin at Sam and pushed harder on the gas pedal. "Now THIS? THIS is fast."

He steered them expertly into and around the next bend, smoothly accelerating. "This is the last curve, then it straightens. Did you get a good look at the truck?"

"Couldn't see much," Sam answered, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. "Black, silver trim, silver running boards. That's about it."

Dean gave a short choppy nod and settled himself solidly behind the wheel, his muscles tensing and his stare intense on the road in front of them. The Impala's headlights sliced through the gloom as they roared out of the curve. The straightaway opened in front of them and Sam's stomach dove somewhere into the area of his toes.

The truck hadn't gone far. Just far enough to turn around and begin flying back towards them. Its headlights straddled the center line of the road, already close enough to be blinding.

If they thought they were going to startle the Impala's driver into running off of the road, they obviously didn't know Dean. His eyes narrowed against the glare, his profile looked like it was set in stone.

The two vehicles roared towards each other, already too close for this to even be considered a game of chicken. Russian Roulette seemed a better analogy to Sam. In the split second they had left before a collision he did the only thing he could. He began to pray.

Dean cursed violently and jerked the wheel to the right at the same time the truck's driver returned to some form of sanity and did the same thing. The two vehicles edged by each other with only a few feet to spare and then the Impala was off of the road and skimming by the remains of the old stone wall. They were thrown from side to side as their tires bumped over some of the smaller rocks littering the ground. The rear end skewed to the side as they cleared the wall and they plowed sideways into the grass covered field. The soft ground grasped at the tires, rapidly slowing them, and Dean grunted as he held onto the bucking steering wheel.

He managed to steer the heavy car back towards the road and hit the brakes as soon as the tires found enough purchase on the harder earth near the verge. The Impala rocked heavily, throwing them forward as it slid to a stop in a shower of dirt. They ended up neatly placed on the shoulder of the road. To anyone driving by it would look like they had just pulled to the side and parked.

Sam shuddered and pulled in a shaky breath, trying to slow his racing heart. They were not all that far from the tree that the MacDougals had hit, and Sam ran his hand over his face when he realized how close they had just come to an even worse crash. He twisted in his seat, looking out the rear window.

The truck was off of the road a distance behind them, its nose buried in the woods. It was far enough from them to buy them at least a minute of lead time before its occupants would be a threat.

A low groan pulled his eyes to his brother.

Dean's right hand was clutching his left shoulder and he was slightly hunched over, his left arm lying still across his lap. His eyes were squeezed shut and the groan had given way to a string of colorful curses as he rocked slightly in his seat.

"Are you okay?"

Dean cracked one eye open. "Muscles…completely locked up…freakin spasming. Son…of…a…bitch!" he spit out.

Crap. It looked like Dean couldn't even move his left arm. Sam glanced back at the truck again before starting to lean over. He prayed his gun hadn't moved too far out of its special niche under the seat. Movement outside of his window caught his eye before his hands could grasp the gun and he quickly sat back up.

He didn't know where the bulky figure reaching for his door handle could have come from, it was too soon to be someone from the truck. This was not some innocent bystander intent on helping the brothers, though. While his beefy right hand was reaching for the door, his left was curling into a fist the size of a small ham.

"Dean!" Sam only had time to call out the quick warning before his door started to swing open. He grabbed the door's armrest and held onto it for a second, causing the man outside to tug forcefully. Sam stopped holding it closed and shoved it outwards, hard.

The man outside had been leaning down, apparently eager to drag Sam from the car. The top of the door frame caught him in the mouth, powered by both Sam's shove and the man's own tug.

The man's hands went to his face and he stumbled back a couple of steps, giving Sam just enough room to surge out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. He grabbed the front of the man's jacket with his left hand and spun them around so that the man's back was against the Impala and Sam would have room to move. He drove his right fist into the man's abdomen, putting his weight behind the hit.

The guy was huge. Even though the hit pushed him back into the car and drove the air from his lungs, it didn't have the devastating effect it would have had on someone smaller.

The man's hands, slick with blood from his mouth, dropped from his face to his abdomen and Sam pulled his fist back again, ready to ram it into the man's now unprotected jaw.

He held the hit when he realized that feet were pounding down the road towards him, almost on top of him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the arrival of two men who had been in the black pickup. One of them obviously had his sights set on Sam, but the other was heading towards the driver's side.

A quick glance over the top of the car confirmed his fears that Dean already had his hands full with an attacker. Dean was dodging hits that were being thrown his way, but his movements were awkward and lopsided, his left arm hanging at his side. Neither brother had had a chance to reach their guns before the first men appeared.

"Dean! Watch your back!" A flash of anger went through him that a shouted warning was the only help he could give to his brother. The footsteps in back of him were getting close, and Sam relaxed his fist, dropping his hand onto the shoulder of the man in front of him. He used that hand and the hand still fisted in the man's Carhart jacket to balance himself as he leaned slightly forward.

He lifted his right leg in front of him, bent at the knee, and leaned even farther forward. His right leg shot straight backwards, pushing like a pile driver into the stomach of the approaching man.

The man fell to his knees, retching, a muddy footprint marking the front of his denim jacket. Sam was acutely aware that he was now sandwiched between the two attackers. When the guy in the denim jacket got back on his feet they would come at him from both directions.

Sam had just enough time to plant his right foot back on the ground and regain his balance before the ham fisted giant in front of him was sweeping his beefy arms upwards, knocking Sam's hands off of him. The movement forced Sam's arms into the air, his hands raised above his shoulders as though he was surrendering. The man drew his right arm back and shot a fist towards Sam's jaw.

The sound of a pain filled grunt from the other side of the car shot white hot fury through Sam. He knew his brother's voice when he heard it. An extra dose of adrenaline flooded through him and he spun to the right, bringing his left arm down in a chopping motion. It smashed into his attacker's right arm, knocking the oncoming fist down and away before it could connect.

Sam's right hand shot out, grabbing the man's beefy right wrist before Carhart had a chance to recover from the deflection. Sam held the wrist against his own left hip as he continued to swivel, his left leg sliding to the side to form an obstruction in front of the big man's legs. Sam pulled his left arm back and then drove it forward, his hand shoving against the back of Carhart's right elbow, hard. With his wrist still held in an iron grip against Sam's hip, the big man had no choice but to lurch forward, propelled by the painful pressure threatening to dislocate his elbow. Sam swiveled farther, and the big man toppled over Sam's leg. The entire sequence was over in a second and left Carhart sprawled in the dirt in front of the man that Sam had kicked, looking like he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there.

Both men began to push themselves to their feet, their hands scrabbling against each other as each tried to use the other for balance. Sam turned to the side and set his stance. He lifted his right leg, ready to send a brutal sidekick into Carhart's back. He didn't want to kill the man, but he wouldn't mind temporarily disabling him and sending both men back into the dirt.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" The voice from the other side of the car was deep and commanding, but it wasn't what stopped Sam in his tracks. It was Dean's pain filled cry that did that.

He turned his head and ice filled his veins.

One of the men was standing behind Dean, holding his arms in back of him, and Sam could hear his brother's panting breaths when his cry died away. The awkward position of his arm and shoulder had to be excruciating with his spasming muscles.

A small part of Sam wanted to retreat somewhere safe, and never come out again, at the realization that it wasn't the sight of his brother in pain that made him decide to give up the fight. There was something wrong with being able to block out a sight that gut wrenching, and fight on regardless. There was something wrong with a life that included those kinds of moments on a regular basis.

What stopped Sam was the knife being held to his brother's throat by the fourth assailant.

Sam lowered his leg and took a step back, his eyes shooting fire over the car. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a blur of movement as one of his attackers stepped towards him with a fist raised, and he braced himself, waiting for the hit.

"Eh eh eh…that's enough now. Let's behave in a civilized fashion, shall we?"

The soft words from the man with the knife stopped Carhart cold, and he relaxed his fist with a scowl. He raised his hand to his face instead, wiping blood off of his mouth with the back of it. He swiped his hand down the front of his jacket, leaving a smear of red behind. His eyes remained fixed on Sam, narrowed with rage.

Sam gave him a little smile. "Damn, dude, that stain's gonna be a bitch to get out."

The man took a step forward, his mouth twisting, and Sam began to curse himself for once again channeling Dean when he was in a tough situation. It was worth it, though, when he heard Dean's soft chuckle.

"I said that's enough." The voice was colder this time and Carhart flinched backwards.

"Move that knife away from him and we can have all the civilized conversation you want," Sam said softly.

"Spoken like a true gentleman." The man with the knife dropped his hand away from Dean's throat and backed away from him. Dean sagged slightly in the other man's hold and Sam knew exactly how he felt. His own knees were a little rubbery.

"Won't you join us?" The man used the knife to point to a spot next to Dean. "Gentlemen, please escort our friend."

The man in the denim jacket reached for Sam's arm, but the hunter jerked it out of his reach and began to walk around the car on his own, his eyes fixed on his brother. Dean was sporting a new bruise on his right cheekbone and Sam could tell from the set of his jaw that he was in pain. Sam could only hope the pain stemmed from his shoulder, and that there weren't any other new injuries that he didn't know about.

"Hey, how you doing?" he asked softly as he neared Dean.

"Still peachy." Dean's voice was a low hiss, and Sam winced at the sound.

Sam glared at the man holding his brother and was surprised when the large red haired man wouldn't meet his eyes. He couldn't be positive, but it almost looked like the man eased his hold on Dean's arms, so they weren't pulled back quite so brutally.

He filed that observation away as he took his place, standing next to Dean and facing the other three men. Sam's attackers took up positions behind the man who appeared to be the leader of the little group, their eyes following Sam's every move.

"There now, isn't this more pleasant?" the man holding the knife asked. "How about if we introduce ourselves. I find that a polite way to begin a conversation. You may call me Charles."

"Okay Charles," Sam said evenly. "How about if your friend lets my brother go, and then we can chat?"

Charles cocked his head to the side and pursed his mouth in an exaggerated fashion as though he was thinking about if for a moment before looking directly at Sam and smiling. "No, I don't think so. I think I like the assurance this gives me that you will actually listen to me."

He took a couple of steps towards the brothers, the knife held loosely in his hand. Sam went very still, a small thrill of fear unwinding in him. He would take the guy down if he got any closer to Dean, and just hope Dean had enough strength in his injured shoulder to break the red haired man's grip.

Charles stopped when he was still a few feet away. "Dean and Sam Collins," he said with a friendly smile. "I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I don't think you'd agree."

"So you're the welcome wagon?" Dean asked, his voice strained. "I gotta tell ya, your presentation needs some work."

"You would probably do better to consider us the 'unwelcome wagon'," Charles said conversationally. "You see, you are unwelcome here. There is nothing here that is of interest to your institute."

"The people run off the road by your local ghost might disagree," Sam said quietly. Relief started to seep through him when he realized this man truly thought they were with the Paranormal Investigations Institute.

"Ooooh, a ghost story!" the man mocked. "That's all you really want, right? I can give you the address of a couple of wonderful haunted houses in Concord. One ghost should be just as good as another to your little group of ghost hunters, don't you agree?"

Charles continued when it became clear neither brother was going to respond. "I would like to suggest that it would be much better for your health to forget about any investigations in this area. You have stepped into the middle of something that you do not understand, and that is none of your business." He exuded a quiet menace completely at odds with his charming smile. "Am I being clear?"

"Crystal," Dean bit out.

The two goons behind Charles began to smirk, and Sam held in a grin when Carhart suddenly winced as the smirk pulled at his split lips. He wiped the back of his huge left hand across his bloody mouth and chin, his eyes locked on Sam's face.

Charles' smile widened. "Well then, I think we all understand each other." He raised the knife in his right hand so that the point was aimed at the sky and made a quick circling gesture with it. "Let's wrap this up," he said to the other three men before turning to walk away. He stopped after one step and turned back to Sam and Dean.

"Let me be clear about one more detail. We aren't alone in these feelings. Going to the police will gain you nothing…except our displeasure." He dropped the smile and his voice lowered, became more guttural. "You wouldn't like us if we were displeased." He turned his back to them and continued walking this time.

The red haired man released Dean's arms and the hunter gave a sudden hiss of pain when his left arm fell to his side. Sam turned to Dean, reaching to steady him.

He didn't see the huge fist heading for his midsection until it was too late to defend against it. All he could do was tense his abdomen and twist slightly to the side to deflect some of the power of the hit. Pain exploded through his stomach and he fell to his hands and knees on the ground, struggling to breathe, struggling not to choke as the coffee he had consumed in the reading room tried to make a reappearance.

He was vaguely aware of raised voices, arguing, and, above that, Dean's yelled curses. His mind didn't really snap back into focus, though, until there was a solid _thud_ and his brother's body collapsed to the ground next to him.

The man in the denim jacket dropped a short length of wood onto the dirt in front of them, shaking his head. "You two really are a couple of stupid mokes, you know that? Just do what my buddy Charles said and we got no reason to talk again. Got it?"

Sam's pulse was thundering in his ears and he strained to hear them as the three walked away, arguing two on one. It was the one dissenting voice he was trying hardest to make out. "I didn't sign up for…rough them up, not kill them…if he's dead…"

The words hit Sam like a second punch and he began to panic, his back arching as he tried to pull in air. Dean's form was unmoving, taunting him, making him feel useless.

A silver truck pulled out of the dirt road leading to the new clearing, explaining the surprisingly quick arrival of two of the men. It turned away from them, heading back towards town. The large black truck managed to back out of the woods and it fell in behind the silver truck, leaving the hunters alone on the dark stretch of road.

The edges of Sam's vision tinged with gray and he fought to calm down. He forced himself to try a slow, gentle, breath, and was rewarded when a thin stream of air made its way to his lungs. After his second partial breath the gray began to recede and he scrambled sideways to his brother.

Dean was on his side, facing Sam, his muscles slack and his eyes closed. "Dean?" Sam's voice was soft and breathy. He shook his brother's shoulder gently, fear spiking through him when he received no reaction. "Dean, c'mon man. Dean!" He had gathered enough air in his lungs to make the last almost a shout, but his brother remained unresponsive.

Sam pushed his fingers into the warm skin on the side of his brother's neck and almost immediately he could feel the reassuring thump of a steady pulse. He moved on autopilot, leaning forward to place his ear near Dean's nose and mouth. His head dropped forward in relief at the sound of Dean's easy breaths, and it was suddenly a little easier for Sam to breathe, also.

"Dude, are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?" he whispered softly before pushing himself to sit up. His abdomen protested the move, the sore muscles cramping. "Dean, unless you wanna go to the hospital you better wake up, man." He had no intention of telling his brother the truth—even if he woke at that very moment Sam would insist he be checked at the hospital.

It was easy to find the lump on the right side of Dean's head. Sam felt around it gently, happy when Dean groaned and his arm weakly moved as though to push Sam's hand away. His smile faded when Dean's movements subsided back to stillness once the painful stimulus was gone.

"Dean! Open your eyes!" Equal parts fear and anger flowed through him when Dean remained still. His fingers twitched into fists. If he had Charles and his trained apes in front of him at that moment he had no doubt he'd be capable of tearing them to pieces.

He pushed himself to his feet and staggered to the Impala's rear door, holding a hand against his stomach as he opened it and pulled out the old wool blanket on the back seat. His hands were shaking when he laid the warm cover gently over his brother before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling his cell phone out.

The ground was cold under his knees when he lowered himself back to Dean's side. He squeezed Dean's shoulder gently with his left hand while his right held the phone and he punched in 9-1-1 with his thumb. "It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine."

The impersonal voice on the other end of the line steadied him and he took a deep breath before starting to talk. "Yeah, it's my brother…we swerved to avoid a deer and went off the road…he hit his head…"

His hand began to gently rub Dean's shoulder while he talked to the dispatcher. He wasn't sure who he was trying to soothe, Dean or himself.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Charles held the cell phone away from his ear until the shouting died down. "I understand that Richard, but it's not going to come to that. They'll both be fine. Yes, things went farther than you wanted…but that's what I'm trying to tell you. I think we've got a problem. I don't buy it. I don't buy they're with that second rate institute. You didn't see them out there. They were tough, they knew what they were doing…Yeah, that's exactly what I mean….That's what I'm telling you. I don't think they are who they say they are. And that means we've got a problem. A big one."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Once again I have to thank my 15 year old son for his assistance with the fight sequence. Unfortunately a recent problem with his knee means his test for second degree black belt will have to be postponed until the fall.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thank you thank you for the feedback. I am still learning and your comments are just so important to me. It's so great to get a feel for how others are viewing what I've written—whether readers are picking up on the points I'm making and enjoying the parts I think went okay. Your support is overwhelming and I truly appreciate it. I hope you like this chapter.

This chapter picks up where we left off with the brothers by the road.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 6:

_The ground was cold under his knees when he lowered himself back to Dean's side. He squeezed Dean's shoulder gently with his left hand while his right held the phone and he punched in 9-1-1 with his thumb. "It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be fine."_

_The impersonal voice on the other end of the line steadied him and he took a deep breath before starting to talk. "Yeah, it's my brother…we swerved to avoid a deer and went off the road…he hit his head…"_

_His hand began to gently rub Dean's shoulder while he talked to the dispatcher. He wasn't sure who he was trying to soothe, Dean or himself._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 7**

Sam sucked in a quick breath and let it out in a soft grunt of pain as he hunched over, resting his forehead on the soft leather of Dean's shoulder. His hand massaged the sore muscles in his abdomen, trying to wish the ache away. He was lucky he'd seen the punch coming. Tensing his muscles and turning enough to deflect the force of the hit were probably the only reasons he wasn't on the ground next to his brother. He'd be sore, but he'd gotten off easy.

He'd kept a steady stream of soft chatter up since he'd slipped the phone back into his pocket. Dean had begun to move a little while Sam was on the phone, seemingly in response to Sam's voice, and Sam hadn't wanted to lose that connection. But he needed a minute to think. To calm down, and clear his mind, and think. They were a little distance from the town, but it wouldn't be too much longer before an ambulance arrived. And the police would probably be there first. He needed a story for them. Something to explain the scrape on the side of Dean's head, and the splinters they were likely to find when they cleaned it at the hospital.

He sat up, keeping his hand on Dean's shoulder. "C'mon Dean, coming up with the bullshit stories is your job. I need you to wake up here, bro."

Sam felt the shivers as soon as they began running through Dean's shoulder, and he tucked the blanket a little tighter around Dean's chest. His stomach dropped when icy cold began to seep into his own knees and spread up through his body. He turned his head from side to side, his eyes darting, searching through the patches of silver painted by the fractured moonlight.

The first wisps were already close and reaching for them as the mist continued to spread over the road in front of him, a cold fog that swirled and eddied a few inches above the ground. Dean moaned low in his throat, the trembling in his shoulder more pronounced as the mist surrounded them.

"No no no no no no…not now…please not now…" Fear crept in with the mist, rising through Sam's body with the cold. Fear, anger, a sharp grief tinged with an emotion that ripped at him from the inside out.

"Not now…" He realized his hand was moving harder and faster on Dean's shoulder, that he was subconsciously trying to rub warmth into his brother, protect him from the chill. He was torn between running from Dean, trying to draw Reilly away, and staying right where he was. Because the hand on his brother's shoulder was the only thing that felt real to him at that moment. It was anchoring him to the here and now, keeping him focused.

Reilly's emotions rose quickly. They were a hurricane beating at him, trying to pull him in, and his vision began to gray. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the feel of Dean under his hand, solid and real. He concentrated on his need to stay by his brother, to protect him, to help him. Dean needed him. "Please…"

The harsh pounding of fear and anger began to recede, the emotions backing off until the only thing left was a deep sorrow lapping gently against him. A heavy grief weighted with guilt. The tremors running through Dean began to subside, the movements growing fainter until Dean was quiet next to him.

Sirens were coming closer, their wail rising and falling in the cold night air. Sam shuddered, drawing in a deep, hitching breath. The air around him was still thick with Reilly's presence, but it was fading.

"_Please_…" Sam's own word was thrown back at him, a plea that floated in the mist. A plea that asked for help, asked for rest. A plea that was tinged with guilt so raw that it continued to rip at Sam's insides.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

"Dean? You wanna open your eyes for me buddy?"

He didn't know the voice, his head was pounding, his shoulder was on fire, and he had a feeling that opening his eyes was gonna hurt like a bitch. Nope. Not gonna do it.

"Pressure's holding steady."

The world was moving under Dean, his bed rumbling and moving from side to side. And somebody really needed to tell the lady wailing over him to stick a sock in it.

A finger was on the top of his eye, pulling at his eyelid. He tried to lift his hand to swat at it but his arm didn't seem to want to move. What the hell trick was his brother playing on him now? Didn't they declare a truce in Texas?

"He's coming around."

He fought to keep his eyelid where it belonged, solidly closed over his eye, but it was a losing proposition. The finger pulling at it was too persistent. A blinding point of light appeared in front of him and he tried to jerk his head away…but it wasn't going anywhere either. Felt like his brother had placed a couple of Bobby Singer's books on either side of his head. They hadn't been at Bobby's place, though…he didn't think…

The finger was on his other eye now, the light again blinding him, and Dean really had had enough. That was it. He was going to kick his brother's butt.

"Saaammm…" His voice sounded muffled even to his own ears, and he realized there was something over his nose and mouth.

"Pupils are still equal and reactive, and we're starting to get purposeful movement now. Dean? Dean Collins? Open your eyes for me buddy!"

The voice was practically shouting, aggravating Dean's headache. He pulled his eyes open to narrow slits. Anything to get the Marquis de Sade to just…SHUT…UP!

His vision was a little fuzzy, but it was clear enough for him to make out a face leaning over him laughing. "Okay, I'll shut up as soon as you get your eyes open for me."

Oops. Didn't mean to say that out loud.

Reality check. This wasn't his brother pulling a prank on him. He couldn't even see Sam anywhere near him. More of the fog cleared from Dean's brain as he focused on the balding man looking down at him…the grey uniform shirt…EMT name tag… Where was his brother? "Sam…"

The man leaning over him looked to the side as though there was someone sitting near Dean's head and he felt a brief surge of hope. It dimmed when the EMT started talking. "That's the brother, right?" He looked back down at Dean. "Your brother's driving that sweet car in back of us. We're almost at the hospital and you'll see him there. Do you remember what happened?"

Dean thought about it. He remembered a slimy guy threatening them with a smile, and a couple of Andre the Giant wannabe's that worked for him…but he doubted that was the story Sam gave. When in doubt, play dumb. He clamped his lips shut. Nope, he wasn't talking, and they couldn't make him.

"Saved by the bell," the face leaning over him announced. "We're here."

The wailing noise died away and more of Dean's brain began to kick into gear as the siren was replaced by a beeping back up alert as the ambulance backed up to the ED doors.

Things went a little gray around the edges when the gurney was rolled out of the ambulance and the pain in his head spiked for a moment. The world righted itself again as they began rolling him towards the doors and he heard footsteps pounding over the pavement towards them.

"Dean?"

Now THAT voice he knew. More of the encounter by the road came back to him and he remembered the sumo wrestler in a Carhart jacket trying to put his fist through his brother's stomach…Sammy hitting the ground…

His eyes flew open and he looked around frantically, trying to find his brother. Where was Sam? Was he okay? "Saaam?" He couldn't move his head, something around his neck was preventing him from lifting it, blocks on either side were preventing him from turning it… He began to pull at the straps holding him on the backboard until a cool hand on his forehead stilled his movements.

"Dean, calm down, you're going to be okay. You hit your head, remember? You got out of the car after I swerved to miss that deer and fell…hit your head on that wood. Remember?"

He looked up and Sam's face was hovering over him. His brother looked pale and scared, but he was doing his best to smile. He remembered Sam hitting the ground, though. He remembered that choking noise. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine Dean. You're the one who's been napping. How are you feeling?"

Dean's pain subsided a bit as his panic died away and he answered truthfully. "Better." Sam did look like he was okay, like he had it under control. His hand was still on Dean's forehead, the touch of the cool skin soothing, and Dean allowed a small smile to curve his lips. Hey, Cro-Magnon man had just tried to brain him with a tree trunk. He was allowed to have a girly moment or two.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The coffee in the cardboard cup was barely tan, a milky skin starting to form over the top of it. Sam began to swirl it lazily, his eyes fixed on the small whirlpool forming inside of the cup. It was no longer drinkable, but he just didn't have the energy to find a place to throw it out.

He looked away from the cup, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He couldn't seem to shake the image of his brother lying on the ground. His stomach muscles protested when he pushed himself to his feet and moved to the edge of the examination bed. Dean's eyes were closed, the small lines of pain that had been bracketing his mouth at least temporarily eased. He didn't look too bad. His face was a little pale, the light freckles more visible than they would normally be, but the new bruise on his cheek was no worse than a hundred others he'd had.

Sam put the wilted coffee cup on the table next to the bed with a detached relief to finally have it out of his hand. He bent over slightly, peering at the side of Dean's head. The head of the bed was raised, and Dean was propped up enough for Sam to have a clear view of the swollen knot above Dean's ear. He ran the tips of his fingers over the short spikes of hair, moving them out of the way so he could see the slight abrasion. Dean was lucky they hadn't had to cut any of the hair to clean the area up and remove a couple of splinters.

A cold wave of anger swept through him at the thought of that bastard hitting his brother with a piece of wood. If it hadn't been old and dried, if it hadn't splintered easily…things could be very different right now. If he was lucky he might have been standing over his brother in an ICU bed.

"Dude, are you like…running your fingers through my hair? Cause that's just wrong. On so many levels." Dean's voice was low and gravelly, but it was still a hell of a lot clearer than it had been when they first got to the hospital.

"I'm counting lumps. I think I could get you a listing in Guinness, man." Sam straightened up and looked down at his brother. "I thought you were still sleeping."

"Nurse Ratchett is probably gonna be in to torture me again any minute. And what are you still doing here? I thought I told you to go get some sleep?"

"And I thought I told you I didn't like that idea," Sam replied, his mouth straightening into an obstinate line. He crossed back to the hard plastic chair and plopped down.

"You don't have to like it dude. You need to get out of here and get some sleep. C'mon Sammy, you're supposed to be the smart one, but you hanging around here is stupid. They already said I'll probably be out of here tomorrow…" He trailed off, looking confused for a second, and Sam felt an instant spark of worry. "Huh, it's way after midnight, so I guess they actually meant later today," Dean corrected himself. His eyes were clear when he fixed them on Sam and the spark of worry fizzled out. The entire time in the hospital had been like a rollercoaster ride. Sam seemed helpless to stop himself from overreacting every time Dean moved wrong.

"So you can come back and get me then," Dean continued, seemingly oblivious to his brother's brief jolt of fear. "You heard them, dude. All the scans came out clean. Even on my shoulder." He fingered the navy blue sling holding his left arm against his body. It was similar to the one Frank MacDougal had been wearing and Sam was starting to wonder if the hospital got a volume discount on them.

A dramatic story about Dean falling when they were walking in the mountains the day before had convinced the doctors to also check Dean's shoulder for any serious damage. What the hell, they were already checking his head and neck. If he was gonna glow they might as well make sure it was nice and bright.

The doctors had used a lot of complicated jargon to explain that they were able to rule out separations, dislocations, fractures, impingements, torn cuffs…which left them with the bruised muscles that the brothers had already self-diagnosed. Sam hadn't disagreed when Dean complained about all the poking and prodding and scans that were needed to tell them what they already knew. Sam hadn't disagreed that they were a pain in the butt, but he hadn't felt guilty for insisting on them either. The image of Dean's arm hanging uselessly at his side when he was being attacked was burned into his brain right next to the one of Dean on the ground.

Dean leaned his head back against the top of the bed, closing his eyes with a wince. Sam was immediately up and back at his side. "You okay? Do you want me to get the nurse and see what they decided about pain meds?"

"I've got a headache Sam." Dean cracked one eye open and glared at his brother. "And your hovering is making it worse. I'm not dying, dude, and the bedside vigil is getting on my nerves…and it's a waste of time. If you stay here all night you're going to end up not getting any sleep again tonight. Not smart. You may not give a shit about yourself, but how are you gonna be able to watch _my_ back, if you can't keep your eyes open?"

Sam sank back into the chair. It was hard to be stung by the words when he realized that Dean was right. He was already exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before and he was stiff from getting hit in the stomach by a human battering ram. A shower to loosen the muscles would probably be a good idea. "I'll compromise," he said, his voice rough. "I'll go back to the inn when they're taking you up to a room. After I get the room number and know everything is okay." He forced a grin when he looked up at his brother. "That's my best offer, take it or leave it."

Dean sighed and closed his eyes again. "You said you gave the Hancocks a heads up about this, right? And Bob? We don't know how long Charlie and the mutant Oompah Loompahs have been watching us."

"Yeah, when you were down getting the CT scans. The Hancocks aren't worried. They basically repeated everything Bob already told me. Quincy won't make a move against them. The toughest part was convincing them not to call the cops on our behalf. They said Charles' warning was pure bullshit. The cops are straight. But I told them we could take care of ourselves, and if a police report got filed the Institute would pull us out of here."

"And they went along with it?"

"Yeah. I mean, they're nice people and they don't want to see us get hurt…but stopping the land deal is important to them. They agreed, Richard going this far to try to stop us means there's some connection between the ghost and the land. If we find out what it is, the Hancocks might be able to use it to show the land is historically significant and stop the sale."

"What about Bob?"

"He was actually tougher. He wanted to come right over to sit by your bed and hold your hand. Don't worry, I told him no visitors." Sam shook his head. "He still thinks he's not in any danger from Quincy, but I don't like it. I think we're going to have to watch how much we talk to him, especially now that Richard Quincy is back."

"Huh?" Dean had allowed his eyes to drift shut but now they snapped open.

"Forgot to tell you that part," Sam said, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Richard Quincy showed up about fifteen minutes after we left with the Hancocks. Things should get interesting."

Dean's head leaned back against the bed again, his eyes closing. "Hail, hail the gangs all here," he muttered softly. He cracked one eye open to look at Sam. "Hey, you know this is all your fault, right?"

Sam had allowed his head to fall backward so that it was resting on the top of the hard plastic seat back. He tilted his face down a bit, moving his gaze from the ceiling to his brother's scowl, and quirked one eyebrow up. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"

"Quincy is afraid to go after two historians and a midget inn manager, but _us_ he'll go after. Bob was right about the 'Paranormal Investigations Institute' not being too intimidating," he grumbled. "You couldn't say we work for Ghost Hunters? Or the real FBI X File unit? Or, maybe like a paranormal Men In Black? Or…"

Sam returned his gaze to the ceiling with a sigh. It probably would be a good idea for him to head back to the inn soon. Really soon.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Sam's feet scuffed along the wooden floor as he dragged himself down the hallway to his room. He was so tired he was practically numb, the connections between his brain and his nerve endings temporarily shorted out. Dean would kill him if he knew Sam was sleeping in his own room. He had never actually _said_ that he would sleep in Dean's, but he hadn't corrected Dean's assumption that he would, either. If he squinted his eyes just right, he could see that as not exactly lying to his brother.

Even after he'd told Dean about the latest encounter, and his belief that neither Reilly nor Bess meant them any harm, the worried look hadn't left Dean's face. He understood why Dean was nervous about him staying in his own room, but he honestly didn't think it made a difference. Bess and Reilly seemed able to reach him in a lot more places than just his room. So he might as well be comfortable.

It was a rationalization, and he knew it. But he just didn't have the energy to analyze _why_ he was so comfortable in the older room, why he felt drawn to it. Definitely didn't want to go anywhere near the idea that maybe he wanted to see Bess again.

He pushed the door open with a small sigh of relief. There was no denying the warmth that seemed to wrap around him as soon as he stepped through the doorway. The stress that had hardened the muscles of his neck and shoulders into rock over the past couple of hours eased when he shut the door behind him.

Sam was willing to admit he needed whatever bit of comfort the room could give him tonight. The grief he had felt when he'd learned of Bess' fate had almost brought him to his knees. The shell he'd put around those emotions had gotten him through the rest of the night, allowed him to function even when he'd been so scared for Dean. Allowed him to hold it together even when Reilly's presence at the roadside had ramped the grief up. But the shell was cracking.

It didn't matter that logically he knew the emotions weren't his. Logic had nothing to do with it. The pain was deep and harsh. The loss felt real, and new, and it was shredding his insides to not know what had really happened when Bess died. The guilt he'd felt from Reilly by the road was an acid inside of him.

Clothes were left where they fell as he shed them on his way to the shower. The only item he kept a tight hold of was the silver Beretta. He hadn't forgotten the very real physical threat that had been leveled against them. The gun would sit on the small washstand, within reach of the shower.

The hot water pounded against his shoulders and ran down over his body, loosening something inside of him. His leaned his forehead against the shower wall and his shoulders shook once before he drew in a ragged breath and straightened up. He tilted his head back, letting the water run through his hair and over his face, mixing with the salty drops there.

It was a lie. When he said there was no way that Daniel Reilly would have run off to Boston after Bess' death. That was a lie. If it was Daniel's musket ball that had killed Bess, he might have fled. So full of guilt and hatred for himself…he might have done anything.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Exhaustion—physical, mental, emotional—was too deep to be ignored. Just drying his body and pulling a pair of sweatpants on felt like a major accomplishment. He collapsed onto the bed, his hair still wet, and slid the gun under his pillow. His fall into sleep was swift and complete.

There was no feeling of peace when his eyes opened in the darkness this time. Fear was thick in the room, laying over everything like a blanket, making it difficult to breathe. Soft laughter, male snickers, pulled his eyes to one of the windows.

The casement was open and two figures knelt there, keeping watch over the outside landscape. They were dressed alike in uniform coats with white breeches and what appeared to be black boots. Some type of white strap crisscrossed over their backs. It was difficult to make out the color of their coats until one of them moved just right and the soft light coming in the open window illuminated their sleeve. He was not surprised at the lobster red revealed by the moonlight.

Both men tensed at the sound of a horse's hoofs outside, their hands reaching for the muskets hidden in the shadows. Their shoulders slumped at the sound of a soft whistle and they leaned the weapons back against the wall.

Sam couldn't stop the shivers that were running through his limbs. The gentle warmth of the previous encounters had been replaced by a malignant chill. The cold leached into his heart and mind as he realized what he was seeing. He'd just heard the story that night. They were there for Daniel, their weapons were meant to bring him down. And Bess…

His heart pounded in his ears and he tore his eyes away from the two men. And she was there. So close he could touch her.

Hatred flooded him, an anger so deep that he didn't know how to contain it.

They had bound Bess to the foot of her own bed. Thick ropes cut into her slim form, holding her harshly against the heavy wooden post at the foot of the bed. Her head was unbowed, her eyes fixed on the window, and Sam realized that she could see the road outside from her position. They had tied her where she could watch as they killed her lover.

She stood straight, her delicate hands tied behind her. Sam could see them twisting, pulling at the ropes around her wrists, the darkness of blood smearing the ropes, running down her hands. Tremors coursed through her but she didn't make a sound.

Sam waited until the two men at the window had their attention solidly fixed outside before carefully sliding his legs out from under the bedcover. The air coming in the open window was cold, but Sam knew it wasn't the only cause for the goosebumps that rose on his bare chest.

The fear that filled the room was tinged with something darker. Currents of deep despair…of inevitability…swirled around him.

_No…no…no…no…_ Maybe he could change things. Maybe this fate wasn't set in stone. Maybe that's why he was there, so he could set things right.

Desperate hope propelled him upwards and he rose to his feet in the dark room, making no sound, staring at the back of the soldier's heads. He took a step towards them, anticipation twitching his fingers into fists. Movement caught by the corner of his eye stopped him and he froze, turning just his head.

The despair building in the room began to seep into him as he realized that he would be able to do nothing.

Hidden in the shadows, a third soldier stood next to the other window. He was facing Sam, the white lapels of his uniform coat clearly visible. He was staring right at Sam…right through Sam…with a look of complete boredom. It filtered into Sam's mind that he was still bare chested, still in his sweat pants. Pain blossomed inside of him and his throat began to close as grief filled him.

He was merely an observer here, a witness to the shadows of events long past. He had been desperate to know what happened that night, and it seemed Bess was granting his wish.

Bess did not see him as he approached her. He blinked back the moisture that filled his eyes when he saw the piece of cloth they had tied around her head, forcing her lips apart, gagging her. Her hair had fallen loose and swirled around her shoulders, framing her beautiful face, almost hiding the bruise on her cheek. He lifted his hand, wanting to bury his fingers in those dark waves, feel their silken softness, smell their perfume one more time.

The muscles of her arms and shoulders were quaking as her dark eyes flew back and forth between the soldiers and the open window. It would appear to be fear to any of the soldiers who glanced her way, but Sam knew it was the only visible sign of her struggle with the ropes binding her wrists.

The despair he had been fighting viciously sank its claws into him when he realized her goal.

"Oh God, no…"

He thought her eyebrows might have quirked slightly at his heartbroken whisper, but he couldn't pull his eyes from the musket they had fixed into position next to her. The muzzle was jammed cruelly into her ribcage under her breast. They had probably put it there as a way to control her, but they didn't know his Bess. She saw it as the salvation of the man she loved.

A grandfather clock hidden in the bowels of the inn began to chime, and Bess' movements became more frantic. An eerie calm fell over her as the last stroke sounded. She had reached her goal at midnight.

He reached a hand towards her and it was as though some unseen force was blocking him from touching her, from touching the musket, from stopping this.

"No, Bess…please…no…" his voice broke and he just wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to make everything right, he wanted to save her. And he knew there was nothing he could do except bear witness to her sacrifice.

He could see her hard won prize, the tip of her finger resting lightly upon the trigger of the musket. She stood tall and held her head proudly, her eyes looking into the moonlight outside of the window. The words he had spoken to her the night before seemed to fill the room.

"_Look for me by the moonlight. I swear I will come back to you by the moonlight…though hell should bar the way."_

Into the silence of the night there came a slight sound and Bess' eyes began to flicker between the soldiers and the window, her breath quickening. Horse's hooves rang out on the road outside, slowly approaching through the moonlit night. Bess was practically vibrating, fear and determination warring on her face.

The sound came closer and her features softened as her glistening eyes fixed on something beyond the casement. Sam felt like he was moving in slow motion as he turned to the window. The road was a ribbon in the moonlight and a figure was coming into view, cresting the hill. He came closer and closer, the sound of his horse's hooves the only disturbance in the silence of the frosty night.

The final player on the stage moved into his assigned position as the third soldier lowered himself to his knees in front of the other window. All three silently raised their rifles as the tragedy rushed towards its preordained conclusion. Their fingers drew back the hammers and they sighted down the barrels, death focused on the approaching rider.

Bess went completely still and Sam tore his eyes from the moonlit scene in front of him. He started to shake as he turned to look at her, his heart breaking. Her beautiful face glowed in the moonlight, at peace.

"I love you Bess," he whispered, and he thought that, just for a second, she saw him there and heard his words.

Her eyes widened and she drew in a deep breath. Her finger moved on the trigger and the musket shattered the silence.

Outside of the window a set of hooves began to gallop, a hard fast pattern receding into the distance as a volley of musket fire thundered from what must have been every window of the inn. None of the musket balls would come anywhere near him. She had warned him away before he was in range of the British weapons. She warned her love away without him even knowing she had given her life to do so.

Bess' head slumped forward, her hair falling in a gentle curtain over the sides of her face. Blood began to run down the barrel of the musket and she sagged brokenly, the ropes the only thing keeping her upright.

Sam could see what he had missed before. The red ribbon was still woven through her hair, the love knot the same color as her blood. He lifted his hand and this time he could touch, he could feel the silk under his fingertips.

Something in his chest shattered into a million pieces and he sank to his knees. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't survive watching a woman he loved die…because of him. Not again.

He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Waves of pain tore through him, sobs that he would not give voice to, would not give in to. Time had no meaning as he kneeled on that cold hard floor, hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

Silence fell around him and the air shifted. It was still chilly, but the frigid cold was gone. He lifted his head and he was alone in the room, kneeling next to his own bed. The soldiers were gone. The stench of gunpowder was gone. The blood was gone. The woman he loved was gone.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

His eyes traced over the dark beams on the ceiling. The room's usual gentle warmth had been restored, and he marveled at a spirit that was so strong it could bring a sense of welcome to the place where it had died.

Sam had collapsed back onto the bed, numb and shaking, after everything was over. He had expected a sleepless night, but a gentle hand had stroked through his hair, calming him and allowing slumber to pull him softly down. He'd managed a few hours of deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

His emotions had settled by the time he awoke. The gut wrenching grief was gone. It was possible to breathe again without pain. But a deep sadness lingered, an open wound that ached. The emotions were his, not Reilly's. He had been a voyeur in the middle of their love affair, feeling Reilly's emotions and seeing Bess through her lover's eyes. He had witnessed her love and courage, felt her warmth, first hand. It was almost inevitable that he had formed his own bond with the spirit.

She had allowed him to see that last horrible night, and he knew it was not because she wanted a witness to her bravery. It was because she didn't want there to ever be any doubt that Daniel might have played a part in her death.

The pieces were all there, if he could just fit them together. He was certain now that Daniel never went to Boston. It went beyond the highwayman knowing he could not have killed Bess because he never fired a gun. The guilt he'd felt coming from Reilly wasn't because Reilly had accidentally killed her, the guilt sprang from Reilly's belief that their love had caused her death.

When word reached Reilly of Bess' fate his anger and hatred would have aimed him at the British troops like a guided missile, but he would have had another target in his sights as well. Sam understood many of Reilly's emotions now. He understood the anger that came off of Reilly in waves, he understood the sense of betrayal. The British had known he was coming for Bess that night. Someone had heard them the night before, and betrayed them.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Those of you familiar with The Highwayman either through the poem itself or the song knew this was coming. Knowing it was coming didn't stop me from crying when I wrote it. I hope I did the scene justice.

Thanks so much for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** First the wonderful fantabulous spectacular news—in case anyone hasn't heard it yet. A press release from the CW came out yesterday and Supernatural was given an early pickup for next year!!!! SEASON 4!!!! WOOOHOOO!!!! –happy dance-

Yeah, you probably already knew that but I wanted another chance to do my happy dance. LOL

Once again your feedback means the world. To the anon reviewers—thank you so so much. If you're around the board feel free to come out and play! Those of you I had a chance to reply to know I was barely near my computer for the past week. The good news being over the week I seem to have pushed past a bit of a block so the story is once again written a couple of chapters beyond what is posted. It was actually a bit of feedback that cracked the block. Right place, right time, right words. I hope you like this chapter.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 7:

_The pieces were all there, if he could just fit them together. He was certain now that Daniel never went to Boston. It went beyond the highwayman knowing he could not have killed Bess because he never fired a gun. The guilt he'd felt coming from Reilly wasn't because Reilly had accidentally killed her, the guilt sprang from Reilly's belief that their love had caused her death._

_When word reached Reilly of Bess' fate his anger and hatred would have aimed him at the British troops like a guided missile, but he would have had another target in his sights as well. Sam understood many of Reilly's emotions now. He understood the anger that came off of Reilly in waves, he understood the sense of betrayal. The British had known he was coming for Bess that night. Someone had heard them the night before, and betrayed them._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 8**

Sam leaned against the wall in the hallway outside of the breakfast room and pulled the vibrating phone from his pocket. He frowned at the 'unknown' number as he eyed the silver chafing dishes longingly through the open doorway. It was already the tail end of breakfast time and his stomach felt hollow.

"Hello?"

There was no reply at first, just a strange crackling noise followed by a series of crunches. Unease tightened his belly at the sound of a low moan.

"Hello?"

"_Dude! Tell Bob these shortbread cookie things in the basket are awesome!"_

Sam's shoulders dropped and he began to grin. Dean's voice had that garbled 'mouth full of cookie' sound and Sam could just picture the crumbs spraying over the front of his hospital gown. The sadness that had been weighing him down since he woke up began to lift. "You sound like you're feeling better," he laughed.

"_They've got some awesome happy juice here, dude!"_ The crunching continued.

"So have you seen the doctor this morning? What did he say?"

"_Yeah, he came in right after the dude with the awesome basket. Ask Bob how he did that, okay? Man, that little guy has got some awesome con-nec-tions!"_ The word came out with each syllable carefully enunciated and Sam held in a laugh. "_People are still freaking snoozing around here and this awesome dude comes in with a freaking huge basket! Dude! I think it's bigger than you!"_ Dean's voice was breathless with awe. Oh, yeah. He was high.

"Awesome, dude!" Sam replied, his grin wide. "Focus, Dean. What did the doctor say?"

"_He said my head is fine."_ There was a quick snort of laughter. _"I told him you might disagree with that."_ There was more muffled crackling and Dean's voice continued, sounding distant, as though he had put the phone down. _"Wow! What kind is this?"_

"DEAN! Earth to Dean!"

Dean's voice came back on the line. _"Oh…yeah…hey, sorry. Yeah, dude, the doc today just said the same stuff we heard last night. My head is fine. Nothing's squished in my shoulder, the muscles are just…black and blue?"_

"Bruised?"

"_Yeah, bruised. So they gave me some stuff to see if it can get my shoulder to relax and then maybe they'll let me out of here. Dude, they got some good meds here."_

Sam would have killed for a recorder. His brother was actually giggling. "Did he have any idea when they're going to let you out of there? Do you want me to come right over?"

"_Nah, nah, nah…won't be for a few hours at least. No reason for you to head over here. Just do some research or something. I'll call you later."_ His voice dropped to a whisper. _"Dude! You have got to see this awesome new nurse! Mel-a-nie. She is hot!"_

"Okay. Let me know if they give you any idea of time." Sam turned his back to the breakfast room and moved a few feet away from the door. "I'm going to try to track down Elizabeth Benjamin's grave and do some more research. Try to figure out what happened to Reilly." It was easier to talk about finding her grave if he used her proper name. It did not evoke the same emotions as the name 'Bess'.

"_Hey! Bobby boy might be able to help you with the grave! You know, since she was like the lady of the inn…or something…for a while."_

"Yeah, I thought of that. Are you sure you don't want me to come right over there? Keep you company or something?"

"_Nah, you do your geek boy thing for now."_ Dean's yawn was so clear over the phone that Sam found himself yawning in response.

"Okay. Just call if you change your mind. Why don't you try to get some sleep now?"

"_Yes, mom."_ Dean's voice steadied, became more serious. There were some things that were capable of cutting right through the haze of drugs in his system. _"Be careful, Sammy. You've got to figure someone is going to be watching you."_

"Yeah, I know. I will be. And you too. They've got no reason to come after you right now if they think we're scared, but if anything seems the least bit off you call me right away. Okay?"

"_Pinky swear."_ Dean's voice was starting to sound a bit mushy and he yawned again. _"Later, dude."_

The call disconnected and Sam slipped the phone back into his pocket with a small smile. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that he wouldn't be able to confess to Dean about what had happened in his room for at least a few more hours. He wasn't looking forward to having Dean go ballistic on him…but he'd just head right over to the hospital now if his brother wasn't high as a kite. Just get it over with. Instead he had to function for a few hours with the confrontation hanging over his head. He felt like a teenager walking around with an atrocious report card in his pocket.

Well…he felt like he imagined a teenager with a bad report card would feel in a normal family. His dad had never been all that interested in his report cards. He could usually get a smile from Dean with straight A's though. A smile and a week's worth of geek jokes. Sam ran his hand back through his hair and grimaced. That same big brother concern ensured he was going to be catching hell in a few hours.

The small smile returned and he pushed himself away from the wall where he was leaning. Catching hell because someone cared about you wasn't such a bad thing.

He headed straight for the chafing dishes, his hunger leading the way. Food hadn't been high on his list of priorities the day before, and now he was feeling it. Only a couple of the tables were still occupied, late diners dawdling over cups of coffee. Sam made it a point to ignore Bob, who was seated with a young couple. Today's cardigan of choice was a sober navy blue.

The food in the chafing dishes was dwindling, but there was enough there to put together a hefty plate and Sam carried it to the same table he and Dean had used the previous morning. He snagged a discarded newspaper from one of the other tables before he sat down.

He held the paper up in his left hand as he ate, his eyes occasionally sliding off of the printed words to look over the people still in the room. Only three tables were occupied in addition to his. Sam's attention fixed on a silver haired man with a smoothly middle-aged face who was ensconced at a corner table with a glossy magazine in his hand. His even tan was in sharp contrast to his Irish knit turtleneck. Sam hadn't noticed him around the inn before and there was something about his attitude…Sam was willing to bet that he was Richard Quincy.

A heavy set woman came through the door from the kitchen and walked directly to the man's table while Sam watched, placing a small tray holding a tea service in front of him. This must be Delores of flaky pastry fame. The silver haired man barely acknowledged her as she poured tea into a small china cup for him, merely giving her a perfunctory smile when she finished.

The edge of the newspaper crumpled in Sam's hand as his fingers tightened. He dragged his eyes back to the paper and fought to control the anger that was boiling up in his chest. He pushed his empty plate to the side and sat back in his chair, his hand unconsciously rubbing at the sore muscles in his stomach. He battled the urge to stare at the man that he suspected was responsible, keeping his gaze fixed so intently on the newspaper that he was actually surprised when Bob placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of him.

The inn manager pulled out the seat opposite Sam and settled himself into it with his own coffee mug, his back to the man in the corner.

Sam let the newspaper drop to the tabletop and gave Bob a noncommittal smile. He leaned forward slightly and spoke in a voice that would just carry across the table. "Should you be seen talking to me?" He flicked his eyes to the corner. "I take it that's Quincy?"

Bob's eyes were examining every inch of Sam that he could see, lines of worry creasing his forehead. "Not a problem, dear boy. It's a tradition for me to visit with everyone at breakfast. It would look mucho suspicious if I didn't sit down with you, especially considering your 'accident'." His lips thinned and Sam was amazed to see a muscle in the side of his jaw twitching. "And yes, that incredible bastard is Dick." He gave a catty smile. "Have I told you how much he loathes being called that?" The smile fell away and Bob leaned forward slightly. "Are you alright? How is Dean? When you called…" Bob placed the fingertips of his right hand on his lips and looked down at the table.

"I'm fine. Dean is fine. In fact he received the basket you sent this morning. I think he's a little in love with you at the moment," Sam chuckled.

"From your mouth to God's ears," Bob said, his face relaxing into a real smile. He gave his head a little shake and the smile faded. "Sam, I am so, so sorry. I hope you and Dean will be able to forgive me. I know I told you Richard might be dangerous, but I guess I never really believed it. I should have warned you more strongly, I should have—" He broke off, the muscle in his jaw jumping again and his face turning red.

The little man placed both palms flat on the table and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He pursed his lips and slowly blew the air out with a low _whoosh_. His eyes opened and he blinked a couple of times before picking up his mug and taking a small sip.

Sam stared at him silently, one eyebrow raised.

"Calming exercise," Bob explained with a wave of his hand. "As I was saying, I should have tried to stop you and Dean before someone got hurt. Let the man have his damn land!" His eyes searched Sam's face, a small frown twisting his mouth. "You have no idea how much I hate to say this, but I think it might be prudent for you to heed the warning." There was a catch in his voice and he cleared his throat before continuing in a low whisper. "I don't want to see you boys get hurt worse than you already were."

Sam gave a quick nod, at a loss for words. With all the things that he and Dean saw, sometimes it was easy to forget that there were good people out there too. It was strangely touching to find out that other people might actually care about the brothers' safety. He nodded again, more slowly, acknowledging the concern and thanking the small man for it.

"Working with the Institute has gotten Dean and I into a couple of sticky situations before. We're not in the habit of backing off," Sam said softly. He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but intense when he continued. "Look, Bob, the spirit out on the road isn't going to go away on his own. And sooner or later he's going to kill somebody. Dean and I have had some experience with…freeing spirits like him. We'll try to keep it under the radar, but we can't walk away from this. It's not about the land. It's about not letting Reilly hurt anyone. If you want to keep your distance we'll both understand." He kept his eyes fixed on the small man, putting as much sincerity into the look as he could. They needed Bob to trust them, to not get in their way.

Bob met his gaze silently for a second before sighing and shaking his head. "You're going to continue to pursue this, no matter what I say, aren't you?"

Sam gave him a soft smile and nodded.

"But things might be a little easier and the two of you might be a little safer if I help, right?" He looked at Sam and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't even think about going all macho he-man on me and denying it because you don't want me involved. Honey, I am _already_ involved!" he said, waving his hand through the air. "Even if it's just in my own head," he muttered softly.

He lifted his coffee and grinned at Sam over the rim of his mug. "Help two handsome heroes and knock the Dick down a few pegs? I am _so_ in. What can I do to help?"

Sam couldn't help the quick but genuine and wide smile he flashed at the man. Bob choked on the coffee he was sipping and lowered the cup to the table in front of him, glaring at Sam. "Warn a man before you're going to do something like that," he hissed. He took one look at Sam's confused expression and shook his head with a sigh. "Wonderfully clueless. Just tell me how I can help."

Sam began to explain the situation in a low voice, nodding and giving polite smiles occasionally to make their conversation appear casual to anyone watching. He explained that getting rid of Reilly was a package deal. They would also have to 'free' Elizabeth Benjamin's spirit. He expected Bob to be surprised at the news that Bess was a resident spirit.

"Well, it makes perfect sense that she would be," Bob said casually. "After all, she died in your room."

"You knew that?" Sam's eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead.

"Of course I knew. When she got caught in that crossfire she was in her room, which is now _your_ room. I told you…" Bob trailed off and looked thoughtful for a second. "I never did actually tell you that, did I." It wasn't really a question, and his lips lifted slightly in an embarrassed smile. "Oops…my bad," he finished, starting to blush.

"If you have any other little nuggets of information that we might need, feel free to share with the class," Sam huffed. Bob's eyes shifted away for a second, a tic so quick that Sam wondered if he'd imagined it.

"So what happens now? A séance? We bring a priest in to bless the building?" Bob's eyes lit up at the idea.

"First we need to know where their graves are," Sam explained.

Bob's lips pursed and his right index finger tapped the table lightly for a few seconds. "Hmmm…Elizabeth is easy. The original Benjamin family is buried in the Stone Church graveyard. How in the world are you going to find Reilly's though? Didn't he head to Boston?"

"We don't think he did, and that's going to be the toughest part of getting rid of him. We really don't know for sure what happened to him, or where his remains are."

Bob's eyes shifted away again, looking everywhere but at Sam.

Sam's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What? What aren't you telling me?"

"You think Catherine's journal from when Elizabeth died might help you to figure it out?"

Sam nodded his head. "Yeah, I do. Are you telling me you know where it is?"

"I shouldn't even tell you this," Bob scowled "because I know what you're going to want to do. And…it's…dangerous." He tapped the table on each of the last three words.

"Bob?" Sam drew the word out, making it both a question and a warning.

"Okay, fine!" Bob snapped. "I remembered last night, after you left. I might have seen it out on the table in Dick's suite. Once. A few months ago. I didn't know what it was…in fact I'm still not sure. But it caught my eye because it was obviously old. Brown leather, C.R. embossed on the bottom corner?" He held his hands up, squaring off a box in the air. "About yay big?"

"That sounds like it. Do you know where it is now?" Sam tried to keep his face calm, hiding his excitement from the silver haired man in the corner.

"I imagine it's in Dick's suite upstairs, but I have no idea where."

Sam had been aiming constant glances over Bob's shoulder, keeping track of Quincy. The inn's owner had finished his tea and was rising out of his seat, his eyes fixed on their table. Sam reminded himself that he and his brother were just two simple paranormal investigators who knew nothing about hinky land deals and were easily intimidated. "Your boss is on his way over," he said quietly before switching to a normal speaking voice. "Yep, the doctor might let him out today but he's really hurting so I don't know when we'll be able to head home. Probably in a couple of days—"

He broke off when the silver haired man stopped next to their table. Bob looked up with a smile. "Richard, this is Sam Collins. His brother was the one hurt in the accident last night. Sam was just telling me all about it," he said smoothly. "Sam, this is the Benjamin's owner, Richard Quincy."

"Mr. Quincy." Sam held his hand out with a polite smile. "This is a lovely inn."

Quincy grasped his hand in a warm handshake. "Thank you, Sam. Please call me Richard. I was sorry to hear about your trouble last night." If he hadn't already known the source of the attack Sam might have never noticed the calculating edge to the man's look.

Sam let his smile falter and darted his eyes around the room. "Yeah…thank you…that deer just came out of nowhere." He considered it an Oscar worthy performance. He wanted Quincy convinced that the 'accident' had scared them—and that they had no clue he was involved. "I was just thanking Bob for the basket you sent over to the hospital. My brother loves it."

"I'm glad. I spoke to the MacDougals and I know they enjoyed theirs also. They told me they met you two. You're with the Paranormal Institute? Checking out our local ghost stories?"

"We were…I mean we are…" Sam fumbled. He sighed. "I mean we _are_ with the institute, and we _were_ checking out local stories, but now…with the accident and all…we're considering ourselves on vacation right now. As soon as my brother feels up to hitting the road we'll probably head home. Maybe do a little sightseeing around here till he thinks he can handle the drive home, but that's it," he said with a strained smile.

"Well, maybe when he's feeling better you can come back. I'm sure there are some fascinating ghost stories in the town," Quincy prodded.

"Yeah, I don't know, maybe…but I mean…I think there's a place in New Hampshire we might be heading to, and that could take a while…" Sam stammered.

Quincy's smile took on a slightly self-satisfied edge and Sam knew he should congratulate himself for a successful performance. Self congratulation was the furthest thing from his mind, though. He was too busy stopping himself from grabbing the man by the throat. Richard Quincy had played a part in landing Dean in the hospital, and for that Sam wanted him to pay.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Dean's fingers played with one of the straps on the sling keeping his arm and shoulder immobilized. The hospital had hooked him up with some mild muscle relaxants. Combining them with a couple of painkillers was making the ride in the Impala virtually pain free. As pain free as it could be when he was sitting in the passenger seat and his brother was behind the wheel. "Better you than me, dude. I would have wanted to put Quincy through a wall."

"Who says I didn't feel the same way?"

The look Sam shot him rocked Dean back slightly. He hadn't seen Sam looking that pissed in a while. He began to smirk. An angry Sasquatch was a good partner to have. "So if we're just a couple of clueless ghost geeks how do you explain our little encounter in the clearing the night before last?"

"Bob's got it covered. He's gonna casually let it slip to Quincy that I told him we were snooping around in the woods looking for the ghost and disturbed a drunk. We didn't report it to the police because we were afraid we were trespassing. We're just going to have to hope whoever hit you didn't get a good look at the guns."

The Massachusetts countryside was tranquil outside of the car's windows. It seemed strange to be heading through a peaceful landscape lit by the afternoon sun on their way to a salt and burn. These trips were usually made in the dark of night. He shot a glance at Sam. "You're sure the Hancocks are on board with this?"

"After what happened last night? I think they'd be willing to do anything to keep us happy. They probably expected us to cut and run. I explained what we had to do." Sam shrugged. "George said the Historical Society runs the cemetery, and it's kind of isolated, so it shouldn't be a problem. I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth, man."

"Speaking of what happened last night…" Dean trailed off, his eyes running over Sam's profile. A small thread of fear worked its way down his spine when he thought of the risk his brother had taken the night before by staying in his own room. He knew Sam hadn't escaped the incident unscathed. His little brother had turned away at one point during his recitation, after he'd described Bess pulling the trigger. But Dean had seen his face before he turned, and the grief he'd seen there had been a little too close to the emotion he'd seen on Sam's face after Jess' death. Sam couldn't hide it even with his back turned. His voice had been thick with it.

The muscles in Sam's jaw tightened and Dean sighed. He just didn't have the energy to lay into his brother any more about it. He'd already ripped a few layers of skin off his brother's hide when Sam first told him about the encounter. He'd pull them out of this hunt right now if he thought it would help. But the damage, whatever it was, was already done. The best thing now was to let Sam see it through to the end. Hope that when the spirits were gone, their hold on his brother would be gone too. "So Bob thinks Quincy's got the journal?" he finally asked.

Sam slouched slightly in the seat, his muscles relaxing when the expected rebuke never materialized. "Quincy's got _a_ journal, we won't know if it's the right one til we see it."

"Think he'll show it to us if we ask nicely?" Dean smirked.

"Gee, we could try." Sam rolled his eyes. "But just in case that plan doesn't work, Bob's going to try to keep track of him and give us a heads up if he leaves the inn. Maybe we'll have a chance to get into his suite and find it."

Dean frowned. "I'd really like to just stay away from Quincy. Whatever nasty business he's got going on…that's not our gig. But that journal could make our job a lot easier if it can tell us what happened to Reilly and his remains. And what the connection is to that stretch of the road. You saw those other journals. That chick kept track of everything."

Sam was quiet for a minute. "Reilly didn't go to Boston, Dean. I'm sure of that"

"So you've told me. I think we've both got a pretty good suspicion of what happened. But dude, suspicions aren't going to help us pinpoint the remains. The journal might, though."

Sam didn't answer, turning his attention to pulling the Impala into a small dirt parking lot. When the Stone Church and its attached graveyard had been founded, their location had been convenient for the people of the nearby town. Changes to local roads and bridges had pushed the town's development in a different direction and the area near the church had stagnated and died off. When the Stone Church itself had been gutted by fire a hundred years later it was never rebuilt and the orphaned graveyard slowly fell into serious disrepair. The Historical Society had taken it over just a couple of years before and was slowly working on restoring the property. Eventually they would try to have it included on some of the popular New England 'headstone and graveyard' tours.

"I thought you said the Hancocks were meeting us here?" Dean asked as he twisted around in the seat, looking around the empty lot.

"They said they were going to park in a lot around the back. It's probably a good idea to not let our cars be seen together if we can avoid it."

Dean nodded approvingly before climbing out. The change in position caused his slumbering headache to briefly wake and he squinted his eyes against the afternoon sun slanting into his face. He had no problem with just resting his rump against the side of the car and letting Sam gather the things they needed from the trunk. The hard bulk of the silver handgun that Dean slid into place against the small of his back was the only bit of equipment that he was concerned about. The shotgun would remain in the duffel that Sam carried unless it was needed. Didn't want the sight of it to freak the Hancocks out or anything. Digging up a historic grave, and salting and burning it, would probably do a good enough job of that.

They followed a worn path through the dilapidated stone wall surrounding the graveyard. High weeds and overgrown trees and bushes around the outside of the wall hid the progress that had been made in the restoration efforts from view until they were actually standing in the burial ground. Worn headstones were still canted at odd angles and scattered in uneven rows, but at least they could be seen now that weeds and other growth had been cleared away. Trees and hedges scattered over the grounds were neatly trimmed and broke the tract into smaller and more private lots.

The brothers followed a central path toward the back of the property until they came around a tall hedge and the Benjamins' graves were right in front of them. They both stopped in their tracks and Dean began to grin. "Sweeeet!" He walked to the small Bobcat excavator and looked down into the already opened grave in front of it. "Dude! Think we could get a trailer to pull one of these in back of the car?" The hole was a good two to three feet shallower than they normally dug, but it had saved them a lot of work. Actually, it had saved _Sam_ a lot of work.

The Hancocks were sitting on a stone bench on the far side of the open hole. George was holding a small bible tightly and both of them looked solemn. "Is that okay?" Margaret asked hesitantly. "We didn't want to go down any farther because we didn't want to…disturb anything." She choked a bit on the word. "We did a small reading before we started. It seemed right." She nodded at the bible.

Dean looked to Sam. Handholding civilians was usually his brother's job. Sam had dropped the shovel and other items next to the Bobcat and was staring down, his eyes shifting between the open grave and the headstone that had been laid out of the way next to it. A crudely carved cherub's head and wings filled the top of the stone. The writing was mostly worn away, wind and rain conspiring to make it obvious just how long ago Elizabeth Benjamin had died. Dean could barely make out the words under the cherub's head. _"In loving mem…of Elizabe…beloved daugh…"_

Sam looked frozen, his face pale, and Dean's stomach clenched. He turned back to the Hancocks. "That's nice, that you did that. The reading, I mean," he said awkwardly. He reached for the strap running from the wrist of his sling and began to pull the Velcro loose. Sam's shoulders jerked and his head snapped around at the noise.

"Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

"I got this Sammy," Dean said softly. "You don't have to…"

Sam was shaking his head. "No, no way man. You've got to rest that shoulder." He picked the shovel up and placed it next to the hole before lowering himself down to the loose dirt at the bottom. He took a deep breath and his face went blank as he picked up the shovel.

Dean knew that look. It was the same expression Sam used to get when John would lay into him as a young teenager, before he had started fighting back. It was the expression that declared 'this doesn't hurt, I'm tougher than this, I don't feel anything'.

"It should only be a few inches," George said. "We checked the records. Her coffin was placed above her mom's, so it's not as deep as you would think."

Sam gave a short choppy nod and began lifting dirt out of the hole without a word.

"Sam explained what we're going to do, right?" Dean asked as he walked over to stand next to the couple. "Maybe we should wait till dark to hide the smoke a bit."

George shook his head. "No need. We talked to Ethan, the local fire chief. Told him we'd be burning a brush pile. Nobody will come to investigate." He spoke in a monotone, his eyes fixed on Sam. He reached out to grasp Margaret's hand. "It doesn't seem right. We've spent so much of our lives trying to preserve history, and this..." he gestured towards the open grave.

"It has to be done," Dean said softly. "She's being held here, and it's not where she belongs. It's cruel. This will free her. It's the right thing for her." He pitched his voice so that his brother would also hear the words. Dean might not actually believe them, but he suspected that his brother did.

He could hear the change when the shovel reached a different surface under the soil. Sam scraped more dirt out of the way and then drove the point of the shovel down into the rotting wood. The wood began to split with a sound like wet cardboard ripping and Sam hastily climbed from the hole before he fell through the disintegrating surface and into the bones underneath. With a different grave he might have continued working from down in the hole. With this particular grave that wasn't an option.

Sam remained silent, ignoring the other three present at the gravesite. He ripped his coat off and threw it to the side before stretching out on the ground with his head and shoulders extending over the edge of the grave. His long arms made it easy for the shovel to finish destroying the top of the coffin. His movements were sharp and fast, bordering on frantic.

Dean moved to his side and crouched down next to him. He placed his right hand on Sam's back. "Sam, you're done. Okay Sammy? That's good enough."

The heavy muscles under Dean's hand stilled and the only sound was Sam's panting breaths. Sam slowly levered himself up onto his knees and pushed himself back from the grave before rising to his feet. He walked several feet away and stood with his back to Dean and the desecrated grave. The tremors running through his upper body made it look like he was shivering in a bitter cold.

"Is he okay?" Margaret asked softly as she and George rose to their feet.

A slight grimace crossed Dean's face as he pushed himself up. The meds were starting to wear off. This was shaping up to be a really fun afternoon. He gave the Hancocks a small smile. "This isn't easy for us either," he covered. "Especially Sam. I think he did so much research he feels like he knows her." The smile fell from his face as soon as his back was to them. He walked toward his brother, a worried frown taking the smile's place.

Sam was staring across the quiet cemetery, his face etched with pain. "I can't do it, Dean. I promised I'd let you know what was going on, and I'm telling you I can't do this." The words came out in a rush, his voice shaking. He was taking fast gulping breaths and Dean started to worry that he was going to hyperventilate.

Dean put his hand on the back of Sam's neck and squeezed it soothingly. Sam's breathing slowed down and he wiped his forearm over his face. His words were slower when he continued, but his voice was low and strained. "It's bad. I don't know if it's me, or if it's him, but it's bad." He took a shuddering breath. "I feel like I would if it was Jess…and when I do this she'll really be gone and I won't see her anymore…I know it doesn't make sense, but it's how I feel…" His head dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Dean nodded once. "It's okay, Sammy, I got you covered." The tremors that had been running through him had slowed to a slight tremble and Dean squeezed the back of his neck one last time before dropping his hand. "Dude, just try to remember…it's not Jess. You don't know this woman, you never met her," he said softly.

Sam didn't move when Dean walked back to the grave, he remained several feet away staring into the distance. It only took a few seconds to empty the canister of salt over the bones in the bottom of the ruined coffin. The stench of the gasoline fumes made Dean's eyes water as he began to pour from the can. It felt awkward doing everything with just his right hand, and he took his time, making sure it got done right.

They sure as hell didn't want to have to repeat this particular task.

The Hancocks were reading softly from the Bible when Dean lit the match. He glanced at Sam's back one last time before dropping it into the grave.

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A/N Hope you liked it.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I had truly expected to have this posted the end of last week. On the SFTCOL(AR)S board my signature line is a quote from Father Mike, the FDNY chaplain who was killed on 9/11. "If you want to make God laugh, tell him what you're doing tomorrow." If you're on the board you all know my life was not my own for the past week. It belonged to the fire company.

As always, your feedback and support…and patience…mean more than I could ever say. Thank you so so much. Kat--I emailed you the alternate version.

So finally, here's Chapter 9. Hope you like it.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 8:

_Dean nodded once. "It's okay, Sammy, I got you covered." The tremors that had been running through him had slowed to a slight tremble and Dean squeezed the back of his neck one last time before dropping his hand. "Dude, just try to remember…it's not Jess. You don't know this woman, you never met her," he said softly._

_Sam didn't move when Dean walked back to the grave, he remained several feet away staring into the distance. It only took a few seconds to empty the canister of salt over the bones in the bottom of the ruined coffin. The stench of the gasoline fumes made Dean's eyes water as he began to pour from the can. It felt awkward doing everything with just his right hand, and he took his time, making sure it got done right._

_They sure as hell didn't want to have to repeat this particular task._

_The Hancocks were reading softly from the Bible when Dean lit the match. He glanced at Sam's back one last time before dropping it into the grave_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 9**

Dean looked at the list of names on the paper in his hand and shook his head. He couldn't actually read the names in the dark of the car, but he didn't have to see them to feel the lead weight of sadness they brought to his gut.

They had returned to the reading room with the Hancocks after leaving the cemetery. The hell with not being seen near them. Dean wanted this hunt done as quickly as possible. Since a quick call to Bob had confirmed that Richard was ensconced in the inn, research seemed the quickest way to reach that goal. The added bonus was that letting Sam immerse himself in the historical research was the quickest way Dean knew to distract his brother from the dark place in his own head that he had crawled into.

It had worked. Sam had torn into the books with an intense focus that had been missing in their earlier efforts. He had a better idea of what they were looking for, and the Hancocks helped to refine his searches. The couple knew where to find the most obscure facts inside of the Historical Society's impressive collection of books and documents.

Sam had refused to even break for dinner, taking just an occasional distracted bite from the sandwich Dean had brought back for him from a local deli. His eyes never left the books that littered the table around him, except for the times they strayed to the portrait of Daniel Reilly. As though he were looking for answers from the long dead man.

The effort had paid off. The list Dean held contained the names of ten men, in addition to Daniel Reilly, who had quietly disappeared during the couple of months that the British troops were stationed in the area. Each of the missing men was either suspected or known to have been one of the group of highwaymen preying on British sympathizers traveling through the area. There was no record of their arrests or executions, they had just quietly vanished. Rumors stemming from unnamed sources had floated the idea that they had all fled to Boston. The rumors seemed to be confirmed by later reports of them being seen in the city.

There hadn't been much information available on the man commanding the British troops brought to the area, but the couple of items they did find painted the picture of an amoral bastard.

Dean had been impressed watching his brother in action. Sam had known just what to look for, and the Hancocks had known just where to find it. Over two hundred years later, Sam had blown the Boston story out of the water. Every account of the men subsequently being seen in Boston could be traced back to one man, a businessman with close ties to George Quincy.

Sam had then turned his attention to the history of Robbers Woods. The owner of the land at that time was not just a Tory, he was rabidly pro-British. Perhaps more telling, after the war he had turned down a large sum of money for the land when a neighbor tried to buy it. The neighbor had expressed a desire to clear the land for a farm. That pattern had continued for a couple of generations, with all attempts to buy or clear the land blocked.

Sometimes the most obvious answer to a riddle also happens to be the correct answer. It was what they had suspected, but for some reason getting the proof to back up their theories just made Dean sad.

"Do you think Richard even knew they were buried in the woods before he started digging the land up?" Dean asked quietly, twirling the paper in his right hand.

"I don't know," Sam shrugged, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him. "But I doubt he knew or he wouldn't have started clearing the land until he owned it. He's a smart guy. He would know that if artifacts showed up while the town still owns the land the Hancocks could use state preservation codes to kill the sale. On the other hand, if the artifacts don't show up until _after_ Richard owns the land, it's a different story. At that point it's private property and he can use access to the artifacts as a bargaining chip for tax breaks and other concessions."

"The way Quincy and his goons got so nuts when we started to poke around? They definitely found something. And it explains the timing of Reilly's ghost appearing." Dean scowled down at the paper. "How the hell are we going to find the remains now? There's no way Quincy would have left them in the clearing. They could be scattered over a landfill or sitting in the water of Boston Harbor by now."

"I don't think so," Sam said thoughtfully. "They can't count on finding more once Richard does own the land. I mean they might, or they might not. The artifacts he already turned up are money in the bank. If he brings them back to the clearing after he owns it, and makes it look like they were just found…like I said, he can bargain for some serious concessions from the government. That's going to make the land a lot more valuable when he flips it to the developer."

"Then it comes down to figuring out where he's got the remains stashed. We're going to have to figure out a list of possible spots and start checking them one by one," Dean grumbled. That discouraging thought brought conversation to a halt for a few minutes and Dean allowed his eyes to slide shut as he leaned his head against the window. He was just starting to doze when Sam started talking again. His voice was slow and quiet, almost like he was thinking out loud.

"All of those men. Some of them might not have even been involved, they were just suspects. The British were strangers to the area…how did they even know who to go after? And how did the British get to the missing men without anyone knowing what was going on?"

"That's easy," Dean sad gruffly. "The only way it makes sense is if they were betrayed and lured into a trap one or two at a time. We may never know what happened…or we might find some answers in Catherine's journal." From what they'd seen, the woman had been smart, observant, and in the thick of things. If she had figured anything out, she would have written about it.

"So why go after Reilly the way they did? In a public place where somebody else could get hurt?" Sam's voice was low and strained, full of pain and unanswerable questions…he sounded like every child who couldn't understand why someone they loved had died.

Dean sighed. Even knowing the answer to his question wouldn't make it any easier for Sam. "Sam…Reilly was famous. He was the most well known highwayman in the area, and he didn't hide it. He might have been a folk hero, but everybody knew he was a highwayman and the British had the right to take him down. Add to that the fact that he wasn't a local boy. No family in the area to rile things up. The British could go after him publicly, make an example out of him, and nobody could say a word about it." Dean caught the surprised look Sam gave him and raised his eyebrows. "What? You think I spent the evening just admiring geek boy in action?"

"That and napping after you took your medicine, Grandpa," Sam said with a small smile.

Dean _had_ spent some time sleeping on a couch in the sitting room across the hall from the reading room, but he just waved his hand dismissively. "I rested my eyes for five minutes. Get over it." He smirked at Sam. "Try not to look so shocked that I wasn't just screwing around the rest of the time. I know how to do research too. You dug up the hidden details in the dusty books, I went for the big picture in the story books. Daniel Reilly, 'The Highwayman', was mentioned in a lot of the folk tales from this area."

Sam just nodded and then seemed content to fall silent, his attention fixed on the road in front of them. Road noises and the throaty roar of the Impala's engine filled the air between them as Dean switched his attention to the dark trees outside of the window. Sam was taking his time getting them back to the inn, neither brother comfortable with flying around the curves through the woods. A sudden thought struck Dean and he began to smile. "You know dude," he said, turning towards Sam "the Hancocks have what they need, now. Names and a story to chase down. Even without the artifacts they'll be able to stop the land sale."

"Yep. Sucks to be Dick Quincy right now." Sam's return smile had a slightly evil tinge to it. His eyes shifted to the rearview mirror and he laid his foot on the brake with a frown. Red flashing lights were slowly gaining on them. He eased the Impala to the side of the road and Dean tensed. It didn't matter if Charles was telling the truth or lying about having 5-0 in his pocket, encounters with the police were never a good thing for a Winchester.

The police car ignored them, pulling over to straddle the center line as it neared. Its mission didn't seem too urgent, it was barely making the speed limit. The steady red pulse of its light lit the woods around them eerily as it silently rolled past with no siren. A flat bed truck followed on its tail, 'South State Towing' emblazoned in flowing script on its passenger door.

Sam pulled back onto the road in their wake, but kept his speed down. They were greeted by a line of taillights as they came around the next curve. They took their place in the queue of cars, ironically in almost the exact spot where they had skidded out the first time the previous night. The final curve in the road lay directly in front of them.

The two brothers looked at each other and Dean scowled when he saw Sam's wide eyed expression. "Don't even go there Sam. It's not our fault if there was another accident. We couldn't be doing this any quicker than we are." He leaned over to fish their scanner out from under the seat but sat up when a dull pain spread through his shoulder.

"Sit still," Sam ordered with a worried frown. "I'll get it." He looked at the unmoving taillights in front of them before putting the Impala in park and awkwardly leaning over, his long left arm reaching under the passenger seat.

Dean scooted towards the door to give him room, watching a set of headlights coming toward them from around the curve with curiosity. He was grateful that Sam's attention was focused under the car seat when the vehicle rolled past. It was a Medical Examiner's van. If the accident in front of them was Reilly's fault he had claimed his first life.

Sam sat up with a groan, the scanner in his left hand as his right rubbed the sore muscles in his stomach. He switched the scanner on and held it in the air in front of them. They hadn't manually entered any of the local numbers and were depending on the unit to search out any active frequencies. They didn't have to wait long before it crackled to life.

"_County from 3102."_

"_Go ahead 3102."_

"_ME just left, South State is on scene. We're going to be keeping the road closed in both directions for a little bit while they get the vehicle loaded. Can you tell me the time the call went out?"_

So much for trying to hide the fatality from Sam. Sam's jaw clenched and he turned away from Dean, looking out the side window at that bit of news.

"_Call went out at 19:17. First units were on scene at 19:26."_

"_Received. We're going to be out here another 15…20. We've got Fire on standby until South State is done. We'll let you know when we're loaded up."_

Dean glanced down at his watch. "The accident was first called in at 7:17…over two hours ago."

Sam swung his head around, his lips a tight line and his forehead creased. "What if it's our fault?" he bit out. "What if we caused this?"

Sometimes he wasn't sure how his brother's mind worked, or how he made certain connections. "Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about Sam?"

"Think about it Dean. Nobody was killed before this. What if Reilly took it up a notch because Bess is gone?" Sam's voice was low and strained.

"Sorry Sam, I don't buy it. You said yourself that Reilly was edging toward violence. Don't go borrowing guilt that probably doesn't have anything to do with us." Dean took a deep breath. He wanted to nip this in the bud without losing his temper. Sometimes his brother's willingness to take on the weight of the world drove him crazy. He didn't care how broad the kid's shoulders were, nobody was strong enough to handle that much weight.

"But we don't know, Dean. Maybe we should have—"

"You're right, Sam. We don't know. I'm not going to second guess something that we had to do." He wasn't going to second guess something that HE had had to do to protect his brother. He couldn't tell Sam that he didn't care if Reilly went out of control because Bess was gone. Bess' hold on Sam had been scary as hell. Delay getting rid of her? Not a freakin chance.

Sam's lips flattened into a straight line and he kept his eyes fixed on the red lights in front of them as they listened to the competing groups on the scanner. Dean regretted the decision to turn it on when a brief conversation between the EMS on scene and the county dispatch mentioned the _two_ code 100s. Two people had been killed in the crash. Sam visibly flinched at that news.

Additional cars were stacking up behind them as they waited and Dean began beating an impatient rhythm on the dashboard with his right hand.

"_3112, 3108, from 3102…South State's got it all moved to the side so we can open up one lane. Let's get some of these cars out of here."_

Within a couple of minutes a line of headlights began to pass them going in the other direction. After the last car went by their side was allowed to move and Dean breathed out a small sigh of relief as they began rolling slowly forward.

They came around the curve and the tableau beyond was lit in shades of red and stark white. Floodlights rising out of the top of a fire truck bathed the accident scene with a harsh light that picked out details with brutal clarity. Red lights on the top of other emergency vehicles flicked silently on and off, a crimson pulse marking the trees and reflecting off of water on the road.

A policeman wielding a flashlight with a red cone on the end waved the cars in front of them into the opposite lane, giving a wide berth to the activity surrounding the accident. The cars edged forward, rolling past the scene in a slow single file.

"Holy Shit," Dean said quietly. The tree that the MacDougals had hit was heavily gouged. A blackened trunk and charred branches overhead showed the ferocity of the flames that had consumed the vehicle involved. Puddles glinted along the edge of the roadway and water filled the ruts torn into the ground by the crash, evidence of the efforts needed to extinguish the flames.

Most shocking of all was the vehicle itself. It was sitting on the back of the South State flat bed and came into view as they edged up next to the fire department's pumper. The vehicle was canted forward, resting on its rims where the front tires had burned away. The windshield was gone, melted into the interior. The cab itself was scorched and gutted, water dripping from the deformed metal. From the front bumper to the back of the cab, the flames had blasted the once black finish, turning it a chalky grey.

"_3112, hold those cars up until they get the truck out of here."_

The policeman obligingly held the flashlight up, stopping the Toyota in front of them. It looked like they were going to be there for at least a few minutes and Sam slipped the Impala back into park. The flatbed's driver and another man in a matching jacket were sweeping up debris from the road and using snow shovels to lift it into large trash bags.

Dean's eyes were drawn to the burnt out hulk with a type of morbid fascination. The distinctive silver trim and running boards were still visible on the back half of the large black pickup. A quick glance at Sam confirmed that his brother was equally shocked. The last time they had seen the black pickup was right after it ran them off of the road the night before.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The two men from the tow company continued to work steadily, one holding the shovel while the other used a push broom to corral small bits of metal and broken glass and plastic. It was easier to watch them than it was to think. Too much had happened over the last twenty-four hours, and Sam just didn't want to deal with it.

He wanted a respite from all of the conflicting thoughts and emotions that were careening through him, even if it was just for a little while. Just till they started moving again, till they got back to the inn.

He kept his eyes away from the mangled truck and allowed them to drift to half mast as he watched the two men working. He fixed his gaze on the small bits of debris scattered across the road, mesmerized by the way they glittered in the pulsing lights. He frowned slightly when the sparkle began to dim, hidden under lazy bits of fog that crept in over the cold ground and wound around the worker's feet.

The misty tendrils spread and one of the workers looked up and said something to the other, giving an exaggerated shudder. Soft wisps reached the puddles on the side of the road and a thin sheen of ice began to spread across them.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, I see it Sam." Dean's voice was strained, thin with worry, and Sam looked over at his normally unflappable brother. Dean's eyes were shifting from one side of the car to the other as the fog spread inexorably towards them. Dean put his hand up as though he was going to climb out of the car but then let it fall back into his lap. "Crap."

Emergency workers on the road in front of them seemed unaffected by the manifestation other than flipping their collars up and rubbing at suddenly cold arms. The policeman standing just a few feet away from them pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket and slipped them on.

Getting the shotgun from the trunk and dispersing the mist with a blast of rock salt was obviously not an option.

The ground on either side of the Impala became hazy as the low cloud swept past them, surrounding them. The cold started at their feet but swept rapidly upwards as the temperature in the car plummeted.

Anger began to grow in the pit of Sam's stomach, washing the unease away. An anger that was not his. "Dean, something's happening…" Sam's words trailed off as the car around him began to dim. He looked at Dean, his eyes widening.

He could see Dean reaching for him, his face twisted with fear. Puffs of mist came from his brother's mouth as Dean called his name in the frigid car.

Sam couldn't reply. The world around him faded to shades of grey and silence enveloped him.

He became aware of a low rumble, the noise of a heavy engine vibrating in the air around him. The world began to take shape, dark fields flashing by the windows as they moved through the Massachusetts evening. Two men were in the truck with him and he recognized them from the night before with a flash of hatred. It was 'Carhart' and 'Denim', one responsible for his own bruised abdomen, the other responsible for Dean's stay in the hospital.

Denim's cell phone was pressed to his ear and he was nodding his head in agreement to something being said. "Your brother in law said he saw the car at the Historical museum, right?" He directed the questions at the truck's driver.

Carhart's beefy hands tightened on the steering wheel and he nodded his head.

Denim turned his attention back to the phone. "Yeah. Nate and me'll keep an eye on them and pick them up when they leave…Tell Quincy not to worry, I know what he wants done. It won't be a problem…You two are still heading to Boston, right? I'll call you when things are taken care of."

A part of Sam's mind stashed the driver's name away, to be pulled out later when the knowledge might be needed. Carhart was 'Nate'.

Denim flipped the phone shut, and shook his head. "This is gonna be a long friggin night. If we'd taken care of things like we shoulda last night we wouldn't have to deal with this bull now."

"That ain't the way we do things here," Nate snapped. "I don't know what kind of jungle Mr. Quincy found you and McDermott in before you moved here, but we ain't animals around here."

Sam would be willing to bet that 'McDermott' was 'Charles'.

Denim looked at him with an amused smile. "That's why Quincy hired Chauncey and me. Cause none of you little boys got the balls or the know-how to get things done. We been around a little bit, me and Chaunce. We're helping Quincy 'grow his business'. And tonight you get to help too. Cause if you ain't helping, then you're just in the way," he finished coldly.

The driver's shoulders tensed at the threat and he fell silent.

Slowly Sam became aware of the other presence in the truck with them. It wasn't one he could see, but he could feel it. Hatred and anger that eclipsed his own, aimed at the two men.

"Jesus!" Denim growled. "Put the friggin heater on, it's like a friggin icebox in here."

Sam recognized the stretch of road. They were heading towards the edge of Robbers Woods, coming from the direction of the inn. The outside scenery began to fly by more quickly as the truck picked up speed.

"What the hell are you doing? Slow the frig down!" Denim bit out.

Nate's breath was coming in panicked pants, his feet working somewhere near the pedals. "It's not me!" he said, his voice high with fear. "I can't get it to stop!"

"Well hit the goddamn brakes!"

"I'M TRYING!" the big man shouted, his voice vibrating with terror as they raced towards the bend in the road, the world outside rushing by in a blur.

Denim braced his hands against the dashboard. "nononononono…"

Their fear was like a solid weight, pushing against Sam. It didn't matter what they had done to him, or how he felt about them, he didn't wish this on them. He would stop it if he could, but he just didn't know how, and his helplessness ate into him.

They never made it to the bend. The steering wheel jerked to the side, tearing itself out of Nate's hands, and the trunk of a huge tree was directly in front of them.

The impact was like a small bomb going off. The front of the hood crumpled around the trunk with a harsh crackling and popping noise. The rear of the truck kept sliding, using the front impact as a pivot point, so that they ended up facing in the opposite direction. Debris flew violently in every direction. The airbags exploded in a burst of gasses.

Sam threw his arms in front of his face, expecting to slam into a twisted surface. He was shocked when he didn't move, his position remaining stable.

The truck came to a stop and the men in the front were silent. Denim was halfway off of the seat, the bottom half of his body jammed into the area under the dashboard, the dashboard itself bent down and tight against him. Nate was sideways in the front seat, blood welling from his forehead. A spiderweb of cracks in the top of the windshield showed where his head had impacted. With no seatbelt to keep it in place, his body had risen up and over the airbag.

There was a small _pop_ from somewhere under the mangled hood and smoke began to drift from the engine compartment. The first light wisps rapidly darkened and grew heavier, and an orange glow began to escape around the edges of the hood.

The men remained silent and unmoving. Smoke began to push out from under the dashboard and fill the cab, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He would not bear witness to this. He couldn't do it.

A hand was gripping his right shoulder, hard, and shaking him. A voice calling to him, pulling him out of the doomed truck.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** So…this past week--6 fires in one week, 4 of them big, 1 of them huge. Like major news story in the Philly area for 24 hours huge. And then the work details and 'critical incident stress debriefing' that resulted from the fires. Plus a severe storm that rolled through with straight line winds and some reports of tornadoes. Plus general work details, and drill... LOL—I'm not whining or complaining, believe me I know I'm truly blessed. My guys made it through the uproar safe and sound, and did a hell of a job.

I'm merely explaining because I respect anyone taking the time to read this story and I don't want you to ever think I'm slacking on updates because I don't care. Couldn't be further from the truth. I am of course NOT going to say a word about when the next update will be. Don't want to make God laugh again. LOL

Thanks for reading.


	10. Chapter 10

Highwayman ch 10

**A/N:** Yes, God is still getting a chuckle at the expense of my best intentions. My life once again belonged to the fire company and my family this past week. On a hugely wonderful note—my guys saved a life last weekend. I'll explain in the end notes if anyone is interested.  Be warned, if too much sugar makes your teeth ache then stay away from the expanation, because I get pretty sappy.

As always, your feedback and support…and patience…mean more than I could ever say. I have not had a chance to reply to all of your wonderful comments but I'm hoping to do so sometime before bed tonight.

**KAT**: please go right to the start of the new stuff, sweetie, and skip the chap 9 recap.

So finally, here's Chapter 10. Hope you like it.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 9:

_Sam threw his arms in front of his face, expecting to slam into a twisted surface. He was shocked when he didn't move, his position remaining stable._

_The truck came to a stop and the men in the front were silent. Denim was halfway off of the seat, the bottom half of his body jammed into the area under the dashboard, the dashboard itself bent down and tight against him. Nate was sideways in the front seat, blood welling from his forehead. A spiderweb of cracks in the top of the windshield showed where his head had impacted. With no seatbelt to keep it in place, his body had risen up and over the airbag._

_There was a small __pop__ from somewhere under the mangled hood and smoke began to drift from the engine compartment. The first light wisps rapidly darkened and grew heavier, and an orange glow began to escape around the edges of the hood._

_The men remained silent and unmoving. Smoke began to push out from under the dashboard and fill the cab, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He would not bear witness to this. He couldn't do it._

_A hand was gripping his right shoulder, hard, and shaking him. A voice calling to him, pulling him out of the doomed truck._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 10**

"Sammy? C'mon bro…Hey, you with me here?" Dean fought down the panic beginning to curl in his gut and shook Sam's shoulder again. It was the same stomach churning fear that had made his hands shake the first time he witnessed Sam having a vision. This was no vision, but he wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. The visions hit Sam with enough pain to drive him to his knees, and thank God that was missing here.

But…in it's place his brother's muscles were locked up tight, his face was pale and his eyes were wide open and staring. Doubt clawed at Dean…what if…what if Reilly had pushed Sam too far…what if this was some type of seizure…

Sam's eyes widened and his breath began to speed up, short little puffs of mist forming in the frigid air in front of him. He jerked suddenly, rocking back against the seat, but even that sudden movement didn't land him back at Dean's side. He was still lost in his head somewhere and Dean's heart began to jackhammer in his chest.

"Sam!" He gripped Sam's shoulder harder, giving it a solid shake. He should grab the cop who was just a few feet away, have him call for an ambulance… "Sammy…c'mon…" His voice was rough, somewhere between pleading and anger.

Sam twitched under his hand and his eyes blinked slowly as his muscles released and he slumped back against the seat. He lifted his hands to scrub at his face and pulled in a long shaky breath. "Hey," he finally said softly, letting his hands drop into his lap.

Dean lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to get himself under control. He had the irrational desire to blast Sam for scaring him. He eased the tight grip he had on Sam's shoulder, but kept his hand in place. Sam's shoulder would most likely be sporting a bruise in the shape of Dean's hand if they checked later. The muscles under his fingers were slowly relaxing, losing the last of the tension that had turned them to steel for a couple of nerve wracking minutes.

"How you doing? You spaced out on me here for a couple." Dean was glad the quaver was barely noticeable in his voice, and Sam was still a little too out of it to pick up on the slight shake to his words. Wouldn't do to tarnish his 'steady as a rock' big brother image.

"I'm good." Sam's voice was a quiet rasp.

"So…you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?" Dean asked. His eyes searched Sam's face, making sure his brother really was there with him, before he pulled his hand away from Sam's shoulder. He eased himself back against the seat with a grimace. With the sling hampering his left arm he'd had to twist around to reach Sam with his right hand. The awkward position had not been kind to his aching shoulder. A glance out of the window reassured him that no one had noticed Sam's little catatonic spell...or his own reaction to it. The tow truck drivers had finished with the clean up and were climbing into the flatbed. The line of traffic would probably be moving again within a few minutes.

He turned back to Sam and his eyes narrowed with worry when he saw Sam rubbing at his forehead. "I mean it Sam. I want to know what just happened. Don't ignore the question."

"Reilly caused this," Sam said quietly, his hand still shielding his face.

"I already figured that part out." Dean snapped. It didn't take a rocket scientist to connect the dots between the now dissipated mist and Sam's 'spell'.

Sam dropped his hand and shook his head wearily. "No. I mean…" He nodded towards the burnt out truck. "It was no accident."

Even though Sam inclined his head towards the wreck, Dean noticed that he kept his eyes away from it. As though he couldn't bear to look at it.

"What do you mean it wasn't an accident? And you know that…how? You and Reilly just have a little chat here or something?"

"He didn't tell me, he…showed me. I was in the truck with them before the crash. I mean, not physically, but I saw what happened." His face twisted in pain, but Dean didn't think it was physical. Sam's eyes slid away and he blinked them rapidly a few times.

The explanation was a bucket of ice water hitting Dean in the chest, chilling him instantly. He remained silent, giving Sam a moment to gather his thoughts. A shudder ran through Sam's large frame and he grabbed the front of his coat, pulling it more tightly around himself. It wasn't because of the cold in the car. The temperature had started to rise right before Sam came back from La La Land.

"Reilly killed them. He, I don't know, took control of the truck or something. Pushed the speed up until they were flying and then aimed them at the tree. It was the guy in the Carhart jacket from last night, the huge guy? His name was Nate. And the guy who hit you with the wood. The dark haired guy with the denim jacket."

"Couldn't happen to two nicer guys," Dean muttered. He instantly regretted his flip remark when he saw Sam flinch. "I'm guessing it wasn't a coincidence that Reilly killed them."

"No, no coincidence. I could feel it, Dean, feel how much Reilly hated them. I just don't know why." Sam's eyes widened and his head snapped around to face Dean. "The dude who hit you was on the phone before the accident. It sure as hell sounded like they were coming for us when they crashed. I don't think he was planning to just warn us again."

"Crap." This was a complication they didn't need. "Could you tell if he was talking to Quincy?"

"It definitely wasn't Quincy. I think it was somebody named McDermott." Furrows creased Sam's forehead and he bit at his lip for a second. "Chauncey McDermott," he finally announced with a satisfied nod. "Good possibility that Chauncey is 'Charles'."

"Well that's original," Dean muttered.

"I got the impression the guy who hit you and this Chauncey are muscle that Quincy hired from out of town. Sounds like Richard is into some shady stuff."

Dean scowled at Sam. "We've got to finish this now, before things get any more complicated." He looked at Sam through narrowed eyes. This was going to go over big with Social Crusader Sam, Defender of the Weak and Innocent. "Sammy, we take care of Reilly and then we're out of here. We gave the Hancocks enough to work with. Taking Quincy down isn't our responsibility."

He wasn't surprised when the muscle in the side of Sam's jaw tensed, his face taking on a mulish cast. "Dean, we can't just run off when we know what this guy is capable of!"

"Sam…" Dean liked it better when his Big Brother tone used to actually have some effect.

"Don't 'Sam' me, dude! God knows how much danger the Hancocks will be in! And what about Bob?"

Dean scowled for a second before sighing heavily. "Look…I'll compromise. We'll keep our eyes open when we're looking for the journal and the remains. Anything we find that can nail Quincy…we'll give the Po Po a head's up. Maybe drop off an anonymous gift to the local boys in blue. And we'll warn Bob and the Hancocks." It was what he had already intended to do, but he'd needed some type of bargaining chip to appease his brother's Dudley Doright tendencies. "But that's it dude. We're not the Hardy Boys."

Sam gave a quick nod, the tension draining from his face. Dean turned to look out the side window, hiding a smirk. He still had a big brother trick or two up his sleeve.

The flatbed transporting the pickup's carcass eased onto the road in front of them and began to move away. Sam threw the Impala back into drive as the policeman in front of the Toyota stepped to the side and waved his flashlight for them to start driving.

"Ummm…are you okay to…" Dean wagged his index finger back and forth between Sam and the steering wheel.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam's voice was stronger than it had been. The idea of finding something to nail Quincy seemed to be pretty good motivation.

"So what's the plan? Heading back to the inn right now might not be too smart if Quincy and what's left of his crew are gunning for us."

"Guess it's our lucky night," Sam said dryly as the Impala began to roll forward, "sounded like Chauncey and Quincy were on their way to Boston."

Dean couldn't help a slight frown. Reilly certainly had been generous with the information he'd let Sam see. "Dude, what's the deal? What's going on? Why's Reilly…" Dean waved his hand through the air in front of him, not sure what he was trying to ask. "It seems awfully convenient that Reilly gave you this little peep show. Since when do the things we're trying to get rid of act like silent partners?"

Sam was quiet for a couple of minutes, long enough for Dean to think he was just going to ignore the question. When he started to talk his voice was hesitant. "Other hunts, other times we've had to deal with ghosts or poltergeists, it always seemed like all that was left was a small part of them. Some nasty piece of their personality, strong emotions, that just wouldn't let go. Patterns that just kept being repeated. With Reilly and Bess it feels like more than that. I don't know if it's their connection to each other…I don't know why it is. But both of them seem sentient. Like it's _them_, not just a part of them. And they're almost, on some level, aware of what's going on now…" He trailed off and gave a frustrated sigh. "I'm not going to go so far as to say Reilly was trying to warn me…I mean, that would be crazy, right?" He flashed Dean a humorless grin. "But I just feel like they want us to know what happened to them, and they want things settled, and…and they don't want us to get hurt." He finished in a rush and kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of them, almost like he was embarrassed to look at Dean. "Like I said…crazy, huh?"

"Yeah. Crazy." Dean didn't think Sam even realized that he was talking as though Bess was still a part of the equation. He still wasn't letting go of her. Dean wasn't kidding when he said things had to be finished now, before it got more complicated. This whole situation, the way both spirits had seemed able to hijack his brother on a whim, was starting to seriously freak him out. The scariest part was that Sam seemed to think the spirits didn't mean them any harm, didn't mean _Sam_ any harm. As though the way they were screwing with Sam's head didn't matter.

And if Reilly truly had slipped his leash now that Bess was gone, if he had begun killing people, things could get very ugly, very quickly.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Fires crackled in both of the front room's fireplaces when the brothers came through the front door of the inn, but even their glow was not enough to lift the mood of the room. It might have been the small group sitting in front of one of the fireplaces, talking quietly, their faces somber, or it might have been the appearance of the normally ebullient inn manager.

Bob stood in the doorway of the office, looking down at a piece of paper in one hand and a cell phone in the other. His shoulders were slumped, his faced etched with lines of sadness. Dean was surprised when it actually took a few beats before he even looked up to see who had come in the front door. The little man's eyes widened when he saw them approaching and he slipped the phone and paper into his pocket before scurrying around the front desk to greet them.

He patted Sam's arm, looking up to give his brother a brief smile before halting in front of Dean. Bob reached out and gently grasped Dean's right hand, his eyes fixed on the blue sling. His lips flattened into a thin line for a second but then relaxed as he sighed and brought his eyes to Dean's face. He winced slightly at the bruise on Dean's cheek. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hesitant.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Dean ignored Sam's soft snort and gave Bob's fingers a reassuring squeeze before extracting his hand from the small man's grasp.

"I'm sure you'll be as pretty as normal in no time," Bob said, eyeing the bruise with a sympathetic smile. The smile faded and he turned his head from side to side, looking suspiciously around the front room. He jerked his head for them to follow and then moved quickly away, leading them around the front desk and into the office.

Dean refused to acknowledge his brother's delighted grin, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he followed the small figure. If his face got any hotter it was going to burst into flame.

Bob waited until both brothers were inside before closing the office door behind them. He turned around and leaned his back against the door as though he was barring anyone else from entering. "I was just getting ready to call you," he said, looking up at Sam with wide eyes and waving his hand at the pocket where he'd stashed the phone. "Jennifer…the bartender? Well, I don't know how long ago he left, but Jennifer just told me Richard headed back to Boston. I didn't realize he was gone because he was in and out of here so many times today… I thought he was just working out in his office… but then I tried to find him to tell him about the accident…but he's not out there…maybe because the lights are out again…"

"Bob," Sam said gently, trying to interrupt the man's rambling and nonsensical monologue. Dean leaned against the wall, attempting to stay out of the way while Sam's soothing voice began to work its magic.

"There was such an uproar when we heard about the accident…I swear I would've called you…but I didn't know he left…"

"Bob," Sam said again, and this time the small man broke off, looking up at him. "Take a deep breath. Calming exercises, remember?" he said with a gentle smile.

The manager gave a jerky nod and pulled in a deep stuttering breath, closing his eyes before softly blowing it out through pursed lips. Dean looked over at his brother, his face screwed into a 'what the hell is he doing and when did you become a yoga instructor?' look. Sam shook his head and lifted his index finger, asking Dean to be patient for a minute. Dean rolled his eyes but bit his tongue, and the side of Sam's mouth quirked up in a briefly flashed grin.

Bob opened his eyes slowly and pulled in another deep breath, this one calmer. His voice was much slower when he resumed talking, and about two octaves lower than it had been. "Did you hear about the accident?" he asked, his eyes flitting back and forth between the brothers.

"We just drove by it," Dean answered.

Bob's eyes grew round and there was a glint of moisture in them. "Horrible, just horrible," he said shakily. "Nate Ryan was driving, and Pete Ricci was with him. They were here. Jennifer swears they only had a beer each, but they got into the accident right after they left here!" His voice hitched and he waved his hand through the air in front of his face before resting his fingers over his mouth and looking at them with wide eyes.

Sam sat on the edge of Bob's desk, his body language exuding calm. "Were they friends of yours?"

The little man's head went back and he looked at Sam as though the hunter had just grown a second head. "No." His tone implied that Sam was insane to even think such a thing and Dean bit back a smile at his brother's bemused look.

"Who were they?" Dean's tone was much more businesslike than his brother's had been. Bob obviously wasn't mourning the loss of dear friends.

Bob pushed himself away from the door, circling around his desk to sit down. Dean moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk and lowered himself into it while Sam just shifted his position on the desk to face them both.

"Nate was a local boy, grew up around here. Pete…" He looked up at Sam. "Remember I told you Richard hired a couple of goons in Boston? I kind of labeled them Thing One and Thing Two. Well Pete was Thing Two."

Dean choked on a laugh. Thing One and Thing Two wasn't too far from his own vision of mutant Oompah Loompahs.

A slightly pink tinge crept up Bob's cheeks. "I know I should be embarrassed to admit that that's the way I thought of him now that he's dead…but he really was an ass." He finished in a rush with a little roll of his eyes.

"You won't get an argument from us," Dean muttered, his hand unconsciously massaging his shoulder.

A look of surprise crossed Bob's face and he looked up at Sam, clearly hoping for an explanation.

"We saw the truck that was in the accident. It was the truck that forced us off the road last night." Sam's voice was tight with anger and Dean dropped his hand from his shoulder when he caught Sam's eyes following the hand's massaging movements.

"Oh…my," Bob said with a heavy sigh. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I mean, we already knew Richard was behind your troubles."

"Tell us about Thing One," Dean growled out. It seemed a pretty safe bet that Charles/Chauncey was Thing One.

Bob grimaced dramatically. "Thing One is Chauncey McDermott. Richard hired him and Pete in Boston a little while ago. I don't really know…I don't _want_ to know exactly what their job functions are." He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk. "Chauncy and Pete showed up here this afternoon, not long after you left," he said, looking at Sam. "Those two and Richard were in and out of here all day. Up in Richard's rooms, out in his office, shuffling boxes of papers around."

"Where's Quincy's office?" Dean asked.

"Out in the barn. The gift shop doesn't take up too much space and only the back half of the building is used for storage. Dick has a very nice office in the front section, although it seems like a waste to me. There have been problems with the wiring out there for as long as I've been here, and they've gotten worse lately. Things keep shorting out and then there's no power in the building. That's why the gift shop is closed right now," Bob explained. "They moved a lot of things out of the office today. They put a couple of boxes upstairs, but most of them they packed into Dick's Escalade. He told me he's decided to just work out of his Boston office until the electricians can get the problem fixed."

"Is that where he went to now?" Sam stood up and began walking around the office looking at things as he asked, full of the same restless energy Dean had seen a few times over the last couple of days.

"I don't know for sure. Nate got here as they were finishing up, and he and Pete…Thing Two?...went right into the tavern when it opened. I thought Richard and Chauncey were still out in the office." Bob began tapping his fingers on the desk nervously. "I was in the tavern talking to Jennifer when Nate's brother-in-law, Gary, came in. He's a local boy like Nate. They both work for the township." His fingers stilled and he looked meaningfully back and forth between the two brothers. "Nate and Gary were both part of the crew that the town sent over to start clearing that land. Ever since then Richard's been giving them some money to do work around the grounds in their spare time."

Dean shook his head in disgust. He was pretty sure he knew who Charles and his trio of trained apes were now. Chauncey and Pete—the two Boston goons, and Nate and Gary—two local dimwits. If he was standing up Dean might have tried to kick himself. There was just no way that that mismatched combination should have been able to get the better of he and Sam. Their father would kick their butts if he heard about this.

Bob shook his head sadly. "Nate…well Nate's always been a bully. But I was sorry to see Gary start hanging out with Pete and Chauncey. Gary's not the brightest bulb out there, but he's basically an okay guy. Anyway, when he got here he said something to Nate and Pete that had those two flying out of here. Gary didn't go with them, thank God, he just stayed at the bar. When we heard about the accident…" Bob's voice fell to a whisper. "Well, I thought Gary was going to have a stroke. He wasn't just upset…he looked scared too. He left to go be with his sister and I went looking for Richard and Chauncey to tell them. That's when I found out the Escalade was gone and the electricity is out in the barn again."

Sam wandered back to the desk and sat in the second chair in front of it. "Have you talked to the Hancocks tonight?"

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth drooping. "They told me you think all of those men were killed by the British and buried in the woods." He looked down at the desk and ran his hand over his face. "Is it wrong that the whole thing makes me so very sad even though it happened so long ago?" he asked quietly.

A brief flash of pain crossed Sam's face and Dean moved his leg, nudging Sam's foot with his own. Sam's head turned towards him and he gave a little nod, letting Dean know he was okay. "We think that when they started clearing the land they disturbed the remains," Dean explained.

"And that woke the ghost up?" Bob's face brightened and he sat up a little straighter.

"Yeah, something like that," Sam said with a quick grin for the excited inn manager.

Dean stood up and copied his brother's earlier actions, wandering the office while Sam explained what their research had uncovered.

"So let me get this straight," Bob said, his hand waving the air in front of him, "you have to find whatever remains Richard dug up and burn them, like you did to Elizabeth's?"

"Basically," Sam answered as he sat back in the chair. "We're just going to have to hope that he's got all the remains that were there. And of course we've got to find where he stashed them first."

"That's if he _did_ stash them instead of just tossing them somewhere," Dean broke in.

Bob shook his head. "No, I agree with Sam. Richard would keep them and then try to use them to get more profit from the property. Richard knows how to use that angle. He did it here at the inn. He gets tax breaks on this place in exchange for the work he did restoring the historic sections."

Dean turned away from the electronic panel he had been examining on the wall by the office door. "So…any idea where your buddy might have stashed the remains? Anyplace he could store things without people poking around? Any property or buildings he owns that might work? Does he rent a storage unit anywhere?"

Bob shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "No place that I know of. He doesn't hold on to properties, he flips them. He wouldn't have given the…remains…to one of his goons to hold for him. He wouldn't trust anyone else with something that was valuable to him. The only place I can think of is…" he trailed off as his face paled. His expression had bypassed 'deer in the headlights' and jumped right to 'rabbit facing a tractor trailer'. "The barn." It came out as a breathless squeak.

He looked back and forth between Sam and Dean as though he hoped they would tell him he was wrong. Dean decided to take pity on him before the man gave himself a heart attack. "I can't see that working. Isn't that where stuff for the inn and gift shop is stored? Don't you and other people go in and out of there a lot?"

The little man covered his face with his hands, and spread his fingers, his eyes peering at them through the spaces. "No no no no no…the gift shop has been closed since this all started, and the only other things out there are supplies for Richard's office and equipment and supplies for the grounds. Richard and the goons are the only people who go in there."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and Dean shrugged. "Dude, it explains the 'wiring problems' getting worse recently. And the guy's definitely cocky enough to have stashed everything in his own backyard."

Bob slumped forward, facedown on the desk, and Sam moved as though he was about to jump out of his seat until Bob lifted his head a couple of inches and began to slowly thump his forehead against the polished wood in a slow rhythm. "I've been living with the bones of a killer ghost right outside my door." He sat up rubbing his forehead. "Ow."

Dean tried hard not to laugh. "Dude, we'll take care of it."

"Good luck," Bob said morosely. "You've never seen the inside of that barn. The back half is a maze of boxes and bags and equipment. I don't know how you're going to find them." The corner of his lip curled in a small grimace. "They're not going to be in a coffin…right?"

Dean had the distinct impression that if they said there was a coffin in the barn the man would faint. "No, no coffin. They didn't exactly have formal burials."

"No coffin...I'm not sure if that's better or worse," Bob mumbled to himself. His face twisted in horror. "We seem to be going through a lot of Hefty bags lately…"

"Before we start tearing the barn apart we should try to get our hands on the journal and make sure we're not missing something important." Dean hooked his thumb at the electronic panel that he had been examining. It was covered with small lights and electronic readouts. "Alarm system?"

"The journal?" Bob looked confused for a second but then his expression cleared and he grinned slyly. He glanced at the alarm panel and then turned to wink at Sam. "Oh my, look at the color of those lights. How careless of Richard to not set the alarm for his rooms. With him in Boston, and everyone else who is staying on that hall out for the evening—you never know who might decide to poke around in there."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

A/N: I'm working hard on getting the rest of the story finished so there won't be any other long delays. I'm about 2 chapters past where I've posted so far and wish me luck that I can finish it completely before the next time I post.

The explanation I promised at the beginning: Last weekend there was a house fire with confirmed entrapment. Yes, _another_ working fire. My guys went in and located the victim and pulled her from the burning house. Contrary to what you see on TV, this is actually very rare for a suburban department. No, it's not because we lose a lot of victims. LOL It's because people usually AREN'T trapped when we get there. It was touch and go for a couple of days because of inhalation burns, but we got word that she's going to be fine. I am so incredibly proud of my guys, and thrilled beyond belief that they were given the gift of being able to truly save a life.

Ok, technically they've saved lives before because we do rope rescues, but pulling someone from a burning house is just…different. That was a gift from God to my guys.

Happy Easter Everyone!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** This chapter is fairly short for me, but I hope to follow it up with the next chapter before too long. It picks up right where Chapter 10 left off.

As always, your feedback and support mean more than I could ever say.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 10:

"_Before we start tearing the barn apart we should try to get our hands on the journal and make sure we're not missing something important." Dean hooked his thumb at the electronic panel that he had been examining. It was covered with small lights and electronic readouts. "Alarm system?"_

"_The journal?" Bob looked confused for a second but then his expression cleared and he grinned slyly. He glanced at the alarm panel and then turned to wink at Sam. "Oh my, look at the color of those lights. How careless of Richard to not set the alarm for his rooms. With him in Boston, and everyone else who is staying on that hall out for the evening—you never know who might decide to poke around in there."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 11**

"Any idea where he might have the journal stashed?" Dean asked as he walked towards the desk.

Bob wrinkled his nose. "Dick doesn't exactly confide in me. I'm not even sure which room it would be in."

"_Which_ room? How many does he have?" Sam's stomach sank at the news. He had hoped this would be a simple in and out. Dean was right, they had to at least try to get their hands on the journal before they tackled the barn. They'd look pretty stupid if they wasted a lot of time searching the structure and then found out from the journal that Reilly wasn't even buried with the other men in the woods. Assuming they could even find the journal. And assuming Catherine had any clue what happened to Reilly.

Sam threw himself to his feet and began pacing the small office. He could feel Dean's eyes on him and he purposely slowed himself down. He didn't know how to explain the way he was feeling to Dean, and he was hoping to avoid the question.

He just wanted to finish this hunt. He had expected the inn to feel quiet, empty, now that Bess was gone. But the hair on the back of his neck had been prickling since he walked in the door. Something had set his teeth on edge, something was off, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

The sound of jingling metal caught his attention and he turned to the desk. Bob had a large ring of keys centered on the blotter and was struggling to separate a key from the mass as Dean stood over him watching.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing.

"You'll need the keys to Richard's door. There's the deadbolt and a lock on the knob. I always thought that fancy deadbolt was a bit excessive, but, eh…" He flipped his hand through the air. "…what do I know."

"Yeah, it's not like someone would ever want to break into his room," Dean said innocently.

"Precisely! Why does he—" Bob stopped suddenly and dropped his face into the palm of his hand. "Oh, you are just soooo funny," he said into his hand.

"No. No way." Both faces swung towards Sam wearing matching expressions of surprise. "We can't take the keys, Dean. You know that."

"No, I don't know that, Sam. Care to enlighten me?"

"Dear boy, Richard has a very sophisticated—"

Sam motored right over the small man's comments. "Because if something goes wrong we'll be taking Bob down with us!" He fixed Dean with a hard stare. There was no way he was going to go along with making things even more dangerous for the inn's manager.

"I'm sure nothing will go wrong, I trust you two—"

"It'll save us a lot of time Sam." Dean's voice overrode Bob's and the inn manager threw his hands into the air in frustration. Dean returned Sam's stare and they stood silently for a couple of seconds, their gazes locked in a silent battle.

"Excuse me!" Bob huffed. "Don't I have a say in this?"

They swiveled in unison to face him and their timing was perfect as they answered with one voice.

"NO!"

"Jesus! I'm up against the Olsen's on steroids," Bob muttered.

"Look, Bob…" Sam started more softly.

Bob held his hand up, palm out. "No, no, you two discuss it amongst yourselves. I find this fascinating." He gave them an evil grin. "And maybe a little hot." He put his right elbow on the desk and leaned forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and fixing his eyes on them before waving his left hand with a flourish. "Proceed."

Sam wasn't sure how to classify the expression on Dean's face. He looked like he was trying to decide if he should laugh or run for safety. Dean shook himself and turned to Sam with his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Bob gave a disappointed sigh. "That was way too easy. You two are no fun."

"You know we can get past the locks, Dean," Sam soothed. "If we get caught with the keys there's no way for Bob to deny he's helping us. It's bad enough that people have seen us talking. Christ! We even had him feed Quincy that cock and bull story about meeting a drunk out in that clearing! At a minimum Quincy is going to think we're using him."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Bob had straightened up in his chair and was waving a finger in the air trying to get his attention. "Ummm…about that…"

Sam turned to him with his eyebrows raised and Bob dropped his hand. "Well, I gave Richard the story just like we discussed, and he seemed surprised."

"What do you mean 'surprised'?" Dean asked.

"Just that. He was surprised to hear there was someone in the clearing. I don't think he sent whoever it was."

Sam's forehead creased in thought as he began mulling over the possibilities.

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. "Then how the hell did he know we were even checking out the clearing? And why would somebody just be sitting out there at night drinking?" He looked at Bob and frowned. "Sam's right, Bob. We've already put you in a bad spot. We've got to start worrying about keeping you safe."

Bob's sigh this time was a happy little sound. "Oh Dino…you _do_ care!"

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

"We should have just taken the damn key. He offered!" Dean whispered. He kept his foot against the door leading into the east wing and concentrated on listening for anyone climbing the main staircase. Voices moving through the front room a couple of minutes before were just a false alarm, fading away without approaching the staircase.

"We already discussed this, and you agreed. Remember?" Sam answered without looking away from the lock pick tools that he was maneuvering inside of the deadbolt. The knob lock had been simple. The high quality deadbolt was a little trickier.

"Well hurry up!" Dean hissed, earning a quickly flashed middle finger.

There was a slight click and Sam looked up with a grin as he withdrew the thin pieces of metal and slipped them back into their case. He climbed to his feet and opened the door, gesturing for Dean to follow.

They stepped into Richard's private suite and quietly shut the door behind them. The door opened into a large living area with a seating/entertainment grouping, small dining table, and a built in bar. A doorway on the left wall led to a second room, probably the bedroom. A hanging lamp left on above the bar cast a soft glow through the room, giving them enough light to maneuver without tripping over furniture

The suite was definitely a reflection of the owner. The historic wood plank floors had been torn out and replaced by a glossy wooden floor in a cherry finish. The wooden beams were still there, but they had been stripped, sanded, and re-stained. The rough plaster walls had likewise been smoothed, and painted with a special finish to give them the appearance of buttery leather. The furniture was a heavy dark wood, either antique or very expensive reproductions. There was an abundance of knick knacks and artwork which could have also been the real deal or clever fakes.

Dean moved towards a set of built in bookshelves lining part of the back wall and waved at the doorway to the left, indicating Sam should check out the second room.

The light above the bar might have allowed them to make it across the room, but it wasn't bright enough to really expose the spines of the books on the shelves. Dean flipped on his flashlight and began to run the beam of light slowly over the rows of books. From what Bob had said, the journal that Richard possessed matched the ones in the Historical Society's reading room. Dean pulled out and examined any books that even came close to being possibilities. He didn't want to miss it because he was too impatient to do the job right.

The skin on the back of Dean's neck began to crawl by the time he was a few books along the first shelf. By the time he was at the half way point of the shelf he was throwing constant glances over his shoulder. By the end of the first shelf a cold bead of sweat was rolling down his back, tickling the skin between his shoulder blades. The strap holding the sling in place against his body began to feel too tight, almost claustrophobic.

There was no reason for him to be so spooked, but he found himself fighting the very real desire to follow Sam into the other room with a lame excuse about the search being easier if they stuck together. He laughed shakily when he realized the only reason he wasn't giving in to the desire was the certain knowledge that Sam would see right through his story. He wasn't eager to provide his little brother with that much ammunition for future abuse.

He took a deep breath and turned to face the room. There really was no reason that he could see for his skin to be crawling. Nothing was out of place, nothing moved, he couldn't hear anything… That was it. He really couldn't hear anything. Quiet was an understatement in Richard's suite, he had obviously put some expense into insulation when the renovations were being carried out. The hush was so complete it bordered on oppressive. It was the type of quiet that made you think there were slight murmurs, slight sighs of sound, just there…just beyond your hearing.

He gave himself a shake and hung his head in embarrassment at his over active imagination. He'd hunted werewolves, tangled with demons, salted and burned more ghosts than he could count. He was a Winchester for Christ's sake! But a room that was too quiet had him trembling like a little girl? Not in this lifetime. He turned back to the bookshelf with renewed determination…and softly began to hum a Led Zeppelin song while he worked.

It was slow going, the sling making his left arm good for nothing except holding the flashlight, but he made steady progress once he was able to keep his attention on the shelves. Sam appeared as he was scanning the final shelf. "All right, I checked out the bedroom and bath. There's a small desk in the bedroom but it only had personal bills and files in it. There are some boxes of paperwork lined up on the floor, they're probably the ones Bob told us they carried up here today. I checked them out but there wasn't anything useful, just files from different real estate deals. I skimmed them but nothing jumped out at me."

"Did you check everywhere? Check the closet? Check under the bathroom sink?" Dean grunted as he pushed a book back into place.

"Dude, I know what I'm doing. I tossed the whole room. Closet, bureau, under the bed, I checked everywhere. How much did you get done out here?"

Sam rolled his eyes when Dean nodded at the bookshelves in reply. "I hope you didn't strain anything rushing," he muttered, moving towards the heavy wooden entertainment unit on the opposite wall.

"Hey! There was a lot of books I had to check out!" Dean whispered at his brother's retreating back. "And I'm working with one arm! Bet you couldn't have done it any quicker," he finished under his breath. He turned towards the ornate wooden bar along the side wall. There was an expanse of built in cabinets behind the bar that would have to be checked, and the shadowy alcove set into the room's back corner beyond the bar looked like it contained a small credenza or chest of some kind. He took a step in that direction but stopped dead when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly rose and his mouth went dry.

Humming Zeppelin wasn't going to cut it this time. It was time to check with his own, personal, human weirdness detector about his case of runaway heebie jeebies. He backed away from the bar and the shadowy alcove, reluctant to turn his back on that corner of the room.

"Hey, Sammy?" He stopped near the entertainment center and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand.

"Yeah?" Sam didn't turn around when he answered. He had pulled open the heavy wood and cut glass doors of the curio hutch that made up part of the entertainment unit and was leaning into the open space, sorting through old leather bound books on the shelf. Dean had been so wrapped up in his own off the wall reaction to his surroundings that he hadn't really been paying attention to his brother since they entered the suite. Watching him now, it was tough for Dean to miss the tense set of his shoulders. Sam's movements were normally graceful and efficient, but right now they were jerky and abrupt.

The creepy feeling that they weren't alone, that something was just beyond the edge of their vision, slammed into Dean. "You feel it too, don't you?" he asked Sam quietly.

Sam froze, his back still to Dean. "Yeah."

"Is it Reilly?"

Sam shook his head and Dean noticed the soft tremors that were starting to move through Sam's shoulders. "No, dude, I don't think so." He turned toward Dean, squaring his shoulders as he drew in a deep breath. His hand moved slowly forward and he gently pulled the flashlight from Dean's hand, aiming the beam at the corner of the room beyond the bar.

With the light shining directly on it they could see that the alcove was shallow, just deep enough to serve as the perfect setting for a heavy antique bombe chest and the painting above it. Sam began to walk towards the alcove, his steps slow and deliberate, his face carefully arranged to give nothing away.

Dean kept pace with him, shooting worried glances at Sam's closed off expression. He put a gentle hand on Sam's arm to halt their forward progress. "You okay, Sam? What's going on?"

Sam turned his head to look at him, his expression remaining a controlled blank. "I'm fine."

He looked…well, maybe not fine…he was a little pale and the small white lines around his mouth were a pretty good indicator that he was working to keep himself under control…but he didn't look too bad either. He didn't look like he was about to fall apart or get hijacked by a ghost. Dean nodded and dropped his hand from Sam's arm. He'd noticed that Sam hadn't really answered his question, he was avoiding explaining what was going on. But whatever it was, he wanted Sam to be able to physically feel his support. He stayed close as they began walking again, the side of his arm brushing Sam's.

They halted in front of the chest and Sam aimed the flashlight up at the painting. Dean reached over and flipped a light switch on the side wall of the alcove. Recessed lights flickered on, bathing the setting in a gentle illumination. The switch also controlled a pair of small, recessed, eyeball lights. One of them was aimed so that its glow highlighted the portrait, bringing it to life.

The brothers stared at it silently for several seconds, taking in the rich colors and carefully executed details created by the brush strokes. Dean cleared the growing tightness out of his throat. "She really hated him, didn't she." It wasn't a question. There _was_ no question. For the first time Dean realized just how brilliant an artist Catherine Quincy had been.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-


	12. Chapter 12

Highwayman ch 12

**A/N:** This picks up right where Chapter 11 left off. Oh…and chap 11…I'm thinking of getting my pinky splinted so it can no longer insert random apostrophe's without me noticing. (yeah, I meant to do it that time LOL)

As always, your feedback and support mean more than I could ever say. I'm sorry I've been out of touch with everyone on the board and emails. Things are still hectic at home and I'm trying hard to get the rest of this story knocked into shape.

**HAPPY BIRTHDAY NESS!**

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 11:

_They halted in front of the chest and Sam aimed the flashlight up at the painting. Dean reached over and flipped a light switch on the side wall of the alcove. Recessed lights flickered on, bathing the setting in a gentle illumination. The switch also controlled a pair of small, recessed, eyeball lights. One of them was aimed so that its glow highlighted the portrait, bringing it to life._

_The brothers stared at it silently for several seconds, taking in the rich colors and carefully executed details created by the brush strokes. Dean cleared the growing tightness out of his throat. "She really hated him, didn't she." It wasn't a question. There __was__ no question. For the first time Dean realized just how brilliant an artist Catherine Quincy had been._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 12**

Catherine's skills went beyond the ability to render the details of someone's appearance accurately. Her portraits of Bess and Reilly had conveyed a sense of warmth and humor, strength and gentleness. You were able to feel her love for both of them. Her portrait of her husband also made it very clear how she had felt about the man.

Technically it was impeccable. A moderately good looking man dressed in the handsome garb that befitted a well-to-do gentleman in that time period. He was standing in front of a desk in a formal pose. To a casual observer it would seem to be a flattering portrait. Until you really _looked_ at it. Until you opened yourself up to _feel_ it. Catherine had been both clever and skillful enough to ensure that there were no particular details that her husband could complain about, nothing specific that he would have been able to put his finger on. It was subtle…a slight glint in the eye, an almost imperceptible tension to his stance, the tightness of his fist…slight tricks of color and light in the background and shading the central figure…

Catherine Quincy had created a portrait that was uncomfortable to look at. Examining it left you with the subtle impression of a man who was cold, devious…a disquieting glimpse of evil with a human face. Catherine's true brilliance lay in the fact that on the surface the image was blandly complimentary. If George Quincy had shown any displeasure with it he would have been seen as pompous and vain, and possibly paranoid by everyone around him.

"Damn, she was good," Dean whispered, his voice breathy with awe. His eyes shifted to his brother's face when he got no reply and his breath caught in his throat. Where Sam had been a little pale a couple of minutes ago, he was now white except for the flush of scarlet high on his cheeks. He was breathing rapidly, his chest moving in quick jumps. His eyes were fixed on George Quincy's image and narrowed in a livid hatred that chilled Dean to the bone.

Sam's eyes fell slowly from the portrait, seemingly drawn to the top of the bombe chest. A polished wooden display stand was centered on the top of the chest, delicate wooden arms rising up from a heavy base. An antique sword was displayed proudly in the notched top of the arms, its silver length glowing in the concentrated beam of the second recessed eyeball light.

It was a beautiful weapon, the lightly etched blade about thirty inches long and rapier straight, but heavier than a modern epee. The halfshell guard between the blade and the hilt was beautifully worked metal, adorned with scrolls, leaves, and vines that time had done nothing to wear down. A similar design was worked into the knuckle guard, the thin half circle of metal that extended from the halfshell guard to the pommel, protecting the swordsman's hand as they gripped the wire wrapped hilt.

A small gasp drew Dean's attention back to his brother. Sam had gone completely still, his eyes wide and fixed on the sword.

"Sam?"

Sam ignored him, his hand lifting slowly and reaching for the hilt. There was something odd about the angle of Sam's hand, the position of his fingers... He didn't look like a novice trying to pick up an unfamiliar weapon, he looked like a swordsman reaching for his favorite blade, familiar with the foibles of its grip and balance. He looked like he had picked up that same sword a thousand times before.

Dean snapped his hand out, smacking Sam's arm down. "Don't touch it!" he hissed. "What the hell is going on?"

Sam took a quick step back, giving his head a shake as though he was trying to clear it. "It's Daniel's sword," he said softly.

"Are you sure?" He didn't want to believe his brother was right, because that would make what he had just seen a little too close to possession.

"Look at the…" Sam trailed off, his face blank for just a moment before he started again, his voice confident. "Look at the ricasso—at the very top of the blade, next to the guard. There should be an engraved clamshell design. It's the mark of the maker. And there will be a 'DR' engraved there. Very ornate, a lot of flourishes."

Dean just stared at Sam for a moment, his eyebrows drawn down in worry. He scowled as he forced his eyes back to the sword. There was nothing on the flat of the blade facing him and so he stepped to the side of the bombe chest and pushed gently against the base of the stand until he could see the back of the sword. Crap. The maker's mark and Reilly's initials were easy to see even after two hundred years. Dean hung his head with a sigh. When he looked back up at Sam he fought to control the bubble of unease in his belly. He didn't have to report what he'd found to Sam. It was obvious from Sam's expression that he had already _known_ it was Reilly's blade.

Sam must have seen the question in his eyes, he answered before Dean could even form the words. "I don't know how, dude," he said with a little shrug. "I just knew."

Which made it item number…hell he'd lost count of where he was at on the list of things that he could never admit to Sam freaked him out. "I don't suppose the helpful little voice in your head bothered to tell you where the journal is? You know, the thing we're actually looking for?"

Sam's eyes rested on the bombe chest and he crouched down in front of it, reaching for the ornate pulls on the front of the doors.

Dean snapped his mouth shut when he realized his jaw had dropped. "Are you freaking kidding me? Next you're going to tell me you can lead us right to Reilly's bones?"

"Dude, get a grip," Sam said, managing to look fifteen years old when he rolled his eyes. "I don't know if the journal's in here, but it's logical. Catherine's painting, Reilly's sword…" Sam shrugged and pulled the doors open. He went still for a second and then he was reaching into the dark interior of the chest. A carved wooden box was cradled in his large hands when he pulled them out. He stood up and placed the box on the top of the chest next to the sword's stand.

He seemed reluctant to open it and Dean stepped closer, reaching to undo a small latch on the side of the box. The lid opened smoothly, revealing a velvet lined interior and the leather journal nestled inside of it. The same brown leather, the same stamped initials. It matched the journals the Hancocks had shown them.

"Do you think it's the right one?" Sam asked quietly. "The one from when Reilly and the other men disappeared?"

"Only one way to find out." Dean lifted the journal from its velvet nest, handling it gently in deference to its age. He laid it on the top of the chest after Sam moved the carved box out of the way.

Dean opened the cover and began to flip carefully through the pages as Sam crouched down to stash the box back on the shelf where he had found it. The pages were old and brittle, and seemed to fall open naturally when he came to a point marked by an ancient ribbon bookmark. His eyes poured over the faded words and he began to nod his head. "This is it. She's talking about a picnic with Daniel and Bess here." He turned to the next page and whistled softly as Sam stood up next to him and leaned forward to look over his shoulder. "This is definitely it. Listen to this…_Ethan and Caleb are gone, just like the others, and Bess says the men in the tavern believe they have fled to Boston. Dear Bess was near tears, however. She says Daniel fears for them. I fear for them also_…" He flipped the cover closed and looked at Sam with a wide grin. "We've got it, let's get the hell out of here."

Sam squared his shoulders, and his lips flattened into a stubborn line as he fixed his eyes on Dean. "Dean, I'm not leaving the sword here. I can't leave it with Quincy. I won't."

The missing sword would be noticed a lot sooner than the journal. It wasn't too far a leap to think Quincy would immediately suspect them. Dean looked at the mulish caste to Sam's features and realized it was a moot point. They wouldn't be leaving the suite without the sword. He nodded his head towards the bedroom doorway. "Go get a towel or something to wrap it in. I still don't think you should be touching it."

Sam smirked and reached into the chest again. "Don't need a towel." He stood up with a deep burgundy tablecloth in his hand. "This should work."

"Just throw it over the sword, I'll pick it up," Dean instructed. He glanced at the journal in his hands and leaned down to look into the open bombe chest. There was a pile of neatly folded burgundy napkins on the shelf next to where Sam had found the tablecloth and he helped himself to the top one, wrapping it around the journal. "I'll get the sword, you're carrying the book," he announced as he made sure the journal was completely covered. He looked up at Sam with a frown. "Dude, you know when we walk out of here with this sword we're burning a bridge. Quincy will come right for us."

"Yeah, I know. We better get packed up and out of here tonight. Go get a room someplace and check out the journal. If we still think we're right and Reilly's remains are in the barn we can come back in the middle of the night and get them out of there. Find a place to burn them."

"Great minds think alike," Dean nodded, extending the wrapped journal towards Sam. "Let's get these into the trunk and then come back up and pack up our rooms." The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up as soon as Sam took the journal into his hands. The feeling that they were not alone had faded in the excitement of discovering the items in the alcove, but now it was back full force.

"I can take them to the car…ummm…why don't you get a headstart on your room and…uh…I'll meet you there?" Sam's eyes were looking everywhere but at Dean, darting around and searching the corners of the room. "Dean…it feels like…" Shivers were running through Sam's shoulders again, but they definitely weren't from a chill. Warmth was seeping into the air around them, a comfortable blanket wrapping itself around them.

The soft sigh that escaped from Sam's lips gave Dean the creeps. He snagged the sword with his right hand, twisting his wrist awkwardly so that the tablecloth covered it completely before he tucked the bundle under his arm. The sling definitely had to go. Having one arm immobilized was starting to make things a little too complicated.

"Let's go Sam," he said, already moving towards the door. "We gotta get the hell out of here."

He stopped when there was no reply, no sound of movement behind him, and turned slowly. His heart began to pound when he realized that Sam hadn't moved, that Sam's eyes were fixed on the hazy figure standing in front of him.

The figure took on substance as he watched, and Dean wanted to just grab Sam's arm and pull him away when he saw the emotions flitting across his brother's face. Surprise bordering on shock. Longing. He tried to convince himself that Sam was wrong, that this was Catherine's spirit. That hope flew out the window when the figure settled into place in front of Sam, its feet on the ground, looking solid and real.

She was in profile to Dean and his breath caught in his chest. A flowing white shift lay soft over her delicate form. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. The teasing humor that Catherine had captured in her portrait was there, brought to life by the sparkle in her dark eyes. She was beautiful. Her eyes were fixed on Sam's and her lips were curved up in a gentle smile.

Dean felt like he had been sucker punched, leaving him shocked and unsure of what to do. He knew how to defend Sam against the usual pissed off spirit. Duck and run, fight back. Meet violence with violence. But this…these encounters could do more damage to his brother than being picked up and thrown into a wall, and Dean just didn't know how to defend Sam from them. Because it looked like Sam was a willing participant.

He edged back toward his brother, keeping his eyes fixed on Bess. "Sam? Sammy? We need to go, bro."

Sam gave no indication that he had even heard Dean. Dean's stomach lurched when Bess lifted her hand towards Sam's face. Sam made no move to avoid the touch, still looking shocked. Pleasantly shocked.

"Oh, _hell_ no," Dean muttered. He tucked the sword more securely under his arm and snagged his brother's sleeve, yanking him sideways and away from the spirit. "Sammy! Time to go!" He didn't release his grip, pulling Sam resolutely towards the door.

Sam didn't resist, merely making a small choked sound in his throat. He turned his face away from Bess and his expression closed off. Dean was a little too good at reading his brother, though. The tense shoulders, gnawing on the inside of his top lip, the slightly narrowed eyes…Sam was working on keeping a lot of pain inside. His brother's shaggy head dropped and he fixed his gaze on the ground, but his stride lengthened and he almost beat Dean to the door.

Dean raised a hand in caution as Sam pulled the door open a crack, making sure the hallway was empty before they both slipped out of the room. Sam glanced back into the room before pulling the door shut and his shoulders slumped. Dean followed the line of his gaze. Bess was gone.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The door latched quietly behind them and Sam reached into his jacket for the lock pick set.

"Don't bother," Dean scowled, his eyes flicking around the hallway. Sam wasn't sure if his brother was more nervous about being seen by a living person…or a non-living one. "Resetting the dead bolt isn't gonna stop them from figuring out there was a break-in." He glanced meaningfully at the bundled sword under his arm.

Sam nodded in agreement and cleared his throat. He hated this. He hated wondering if Dean would even believe the truth. "Dean, I didn't know—"

Dean moved his hand in a slashing motion, cutting Sam off, and turned his back as he moved away from the door. Sam was surprised when Dean bypassed the top of the stairway, heading to Sam's door instead. Dean's movements were stiff and choppy, and Sam steeled himself for the coming encounter as he followed Dean to the door.

Dean's hand was like a vise when it clamped onto Sam's arm, stopping him as he extended his key towards the lock. Dean's eyes were hooded and angry when he looked up at Sam. "I don't like it, but we've got to get the stuff out of this room and I just want it over with. I'd make you wait in the car and do it myself but I don't want you out of my sight. So we're doing it together. But you get any Haley Joe vibes, you let me know. Got it?" Dean's jaw was tight, the words pushed out between clenched teeth.

Sam bit back his own retort, opting to just pull his arm out of Dean's grasp and shove the key into the lock. The familiar feeling of welcome was still in place when they stepped through the doorway. If he had entered the room even once after they left the cemetery he would have known something went wrong with the salt and burn. But he didn't know, and Dean's attitude was starting to piss him off.

He grabbed the duffle off of the floor and threw it on the bed with an angry huff as soon as the door was closed. "Go ahead. Just ask, Dean."

Dean put the sword down on the bed and sat beside it. "What the hell, Sam? I mean, really. _What the hell_? Did you know it didn't work and she was still here? Did you know she was in the room with us? Did you ever consider it might be a good idea to tell me?"

"What do you want me to tell you, Dean?" Sam's voice was a low growl, huffed out between violent movements as he threw wadded up clothing into the duffel. "You seem to think I'm some kind of expert on all of this…all of this _psychic_ crap. I'm not Missouri, Dean! Most of the time I don't know _what_ the hell I'm feeling or what it means! Yeah, I felt something since we walked into the inn. I felt something when we went into that room. Did it _feel_ like it was Bess? Yeah, dude, it _felt_ like it did with Bess." Sam jammed his rolled up sweatpants into the top of the bag before pivoting to face Dean, his hands fisted at his sides. "But we just _burned_ Bess, Dean! Remember?" he hissed. He ran his hand back through his hair. "For all I know, other spirits could give off the same…'vibe', or whatever it is! I…just…don't…know!" He could hear his voice shaking and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "So what was I supposed to do? If I had told you it felt like Bess…and it wasn't…you would have thought I was off my rocker obsessed with her! You know you would have! You asked if I felt something and I told you the truth. I didn't _know_ it was her. Christ, Dean, I didn't even really _think_ it was her. I thought she was gone." He could feel himself deflating as his anger ran its course and just left him with a washed out feeling. He turned his back and walked into the bathroom, gathering up his toiletries.

Dean was sitting where he left him when he came back out, his eyes fixed on the floor. For the briefest moment his brother's expression was unguarded. Sam almost stopped dead at the fear on Dean's face, a brief surge of childish panic welling up in his own chest. The look was gone as soon as he saw it and he struggled to reassure himself that it had been his imagination. The things that were happening to him, this 'shining', couldn't scare Dean. They _didn't_ scare Dean. Dean was convinced they could handle it, that it would all be okay. His steadiness, his strength and calm support, were Sam's rock. They were the only things anchoring Sam and preventing him from being washed away by his terror of the forces moving through him. No, he had definitely imagined the fear.

Dean looked up as Sam moved towards the bed, his expression unreadable. "What about with the sword? And dude, when you looked at that painting I thought you were going to stroke out, you looked so pissed."

"It's like I said in there…it's like I said in here. I don't know how I knew, I just did." Sam shrugged. "Dean, when I looked at the picture, when I reached for the sword…that was me. That wasn't Daniel. Yeah, I was working from knowledge that he gave me somehow…man, he loved that sword," Sam grinned briefly "But it was me who wanted to pick it up, to see what it felt like. And dude, with the things I've seen and the things I've learned…I hate George Quincy too. I don't know the details, but I know that bastard caused every bad thing that happened. He was an evil son of a bitch."

Some of the tension leaked out of Dean's shoulders and he nodded his head. "Yeah…look Sam, I'm sorry to keep ragging on you about this, but I'm still learning my way around your whole John Edward act. Don't worry, we'll get it all figured out. But in the meantime I'm just trying to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah, I know. I appreciate it," Sam said softly.

"So, you got any idea why the salt and burn didn't work?"

"I've got an idea, but I don't know if it's right. Maybe she's so tied to Reilly that she's not going anywhere till we get rid of his bones."

"Let's hope it works," Dean scowled. "Because going back to the drawing board is really gonna screw with my plans to get the hell out of here."

They were quiet for a couple of minutes, each lost in there own thoughts as Sam tried to straighten the mess his anger had made of the duffel. Dean lifted his right hand and began scratching the back of his neck. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times without any words coming out.

"You better just spit it out before I start looking for a fishbowl to throw you into. You're looking a little like a beached fish, dude."

Dean sighed and dropped his hand. "Okay, here's the thing Sammy. I'm worried about you." He looked up and Sam was surprised when he realized that Dean's eyes were sad, not frightened. His voice was low when he continued talking. "I mean no disrespect man, but it seemed like you were starting to let go of your grief over Jess, and that…that's a good thing." He winced as though he was expecting an angry reaction from Sam. When Sam just nodded for him to continue his face relaxed a little. "I mean, you let yourself like Sarah, and you even admitted that that was what Jess would have wanted. You were starting to move forward, man. And now…" He waved his hand through the air. "With all of this, and Bess, it just feels like we're back to square one. And I just don't want to see you go through it all again."

Sam's throat tightened and he looked back down into the duffel, his hands busy inside of it. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and cleared his throat but he still couldn't seem to get his voice to work.

"So…I just wanted to let you know that I'm a little worried about the whole thing," Dean finished hesitantly, his hand back on his neck.

Lips pressed together in a tight line, Sam gave another quick nod in response. His eyes searched the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything. The computer and his research notes were still in the car and he hadn't left too much else lying around. He pulled the zipper across the top of the duffel. Everything was packed.

"Let me have your coat," Dean said, reaching his hand out. Sam shrugged out of it and handed it over, leaving the journal in the copious inside pocket. He leaned forward to help Dean wrap it around the sword but stepped back when Dean waved him away with a brief "How about if we don't tempt fate?" It didn't cover the full length of the tablecloth wrapped weapon, but it was good enough to get them through the front room and out to the car. Dean stood up and held the bundle against the front of him. "You ready?"

Sam lifted the duffel to his shoulder and looked around the room one last time. His gaze lingered on the windows where the British soldiers had lain in wait, and then on the spot where Bess had died. The warmth of the room seeped into him and steadied him and his eyes were drawn to one final spot. The spot where he had held Bess, and kissed her, and felt her warmth in his arms. That memory washed away the rest and he gave his brother a small, sad, smile.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N**: The detail oriented part of me really wanted the boys to be careful about fingerprints and to wipe down all of the surfaces in Richard's rooms since the theft of the sword might turn things into a police matter. Alas, I can only think of one time they cared about fingerprints on the show and I didn't want to stray too far from canon. So I will ask everyone to assume either A) they are extremely careful and never touch anything in a way that leaves fingerprints, B) they actually did wipe things down but we weren't looking, or C) the same fingerprint fairies that follow them throughout the show inhabit this story.

Oh...and you didn't think I was going to let them get rid of Bess so easily did you?


	13. Chapter 13

Highwayman chap 13

**A/N: **Well, I'm back. Bet you didn't even notice I was gone. After weeks of spotty internet connections we were finally tossed completely into the ether about 2-3 weeks ago. Keep your fingers crossed, the cable company seems to have fixed the problem.

I hope.

I've been cut off from everyone so have replied to no reviews, PMs, board comments, emails…sigh. Once this is posted I'll try to tackle some of the backlog. Just be aware there are close to 150 emails waiting for me. (gulp) Wish me luck. Ok, I'm done whining. But I reeeaally missed everyone.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

A **Brief Recap** of plot and characters because the story 'hiatus' was kind of long:

1770s Massachusetts: Elizabeth Benjamin (Bess)—tavern/inn owner's daughter. Daniel Reilly—Highwayman and Bess' lover. Catherine—mayor's daughter, artist, writer, Bess' best friend. George Quincy—works at tavern/inn and eventually takes it over and marries Catherine.

2006 Massachusetts: Bob—Ya'll know who Bob is. LOL. Richard Quincy—current owner of Benjamin Inn. Chauncey McDermott and Pete Ricci—Boston goons working for Quincey. Nate Ryan and his brother-in-law Gary Mason—local goons who work for the town and do work for Quincy on the side.

Okay, when we left off the boys discovered the salt and burn of Bess' remains didn't work, something else was holding her. They found Catherine's journal and Reilly's sword in Richard's room and stole them. Information they found indicates that Reilly and the other men missing in the 1770s were betrayed by someone they knew, killed by the British, and buried in Robber's Woods. Richard Quincey's land deal involving the woods is kaput. Richard and Chauncey have left for Boston. Pete and Nate were killed in a crash caused by Reilly and the brother's have to find Reilly's remains for a salt and burn. And most importantly…Bob has very good taste and has the hots for both brothers.

From Chapter 12:

_Lips pressed together in a tight line, Sam gave another quick nod in response. His eyes searched the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything. The computer and his research notes were still in the car and he hadn't left too much else lying around. He pulled the zipper across the top of the duffel. Everything was packed._

"_Let me have your coat," Dean said, reaching his hand out. Sam shrugged out of it and handed it over, leaving the journal in the copious inside pocket. He leaned forward to help Dean wrap it around the sword but stepped back when Dean waved him away with a brief "How about if we don't tempt fate?" It didn't cover the full length of the tablecloth wrapped weapon, but it was good enough to get them through the front room and out to the car. Dean stood up and held the bundle against the front of him. "You ready?"_

_Sam lifted the duffel to his shoulder and looked around the room one last time. His gaze lingered on the windows where the British soldiers had lain in wait, and then on the spot where Bess had died. The warmth of the room seeped into him and steadied him and his eyes were drawn to one final spot. The spot where he had held Bess, and kissed her, and felt her warmth in his arms. That memory washed away the rest and he gave his brother a small, sad, smile._

"_Yeah, I'm ready."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 13**

The night was clear and cold, a million stars visible across the dark sky. A bitter wind swirled around them as they walked to the Impala, cutting easily through Sam's long sleeve T shirt and immediately chilling the skin underneath. His muscles tensed in a heavy shiver as he huffed out a long shuddering breath. Dean's eyes snapped in his direction at the sound.

"What's the matter? You're cold?" Dean looked from side to side examining the small parking area in front of the inn. "Is it Reilly?" he asked softly.

Sam hunched his shoulders up to protect the sides of his neck as gave an exasperated sigh. "Dude! Overprotective much? It's like twenty degrees out here! And unlike you…" he flicked the collar of Dean's dark blue jacket with a scowl "…I don't have a coat!" He tilted his head towards the bundle in Dean's arms, his mouth pursed unhappily. "Hurry up."

"Wimp." Dean unlocked the trunk with a small smirk and held the coat wrapped bundle over the open space, allowing the sword to fall free. The side of the tablecloth flipped up and a length of smooth silver gleamed dully in the dark trunk.

The duffel slid off of Sam's shoulder and he placed it into the cavernous space, resisting the urge to reach in for the sword. He could feel the weight of Dean's eyes on him as he purposely took a step backwards away from the trunk. Dean pulled the wrapped journal out of Sam's coat pocket and placed it carefully next to the sword before firmly closing the trunk. The thin thread pulling Sam towards the gleaming silver of the weapon snapped as soon as it was out of sight.

"Here." Dean shoved Sam's coat against his chest. "Let's get the stuff out of my room and get out of here."

It took a minute for Sam to distinguish the vibration of the phone in his pocket from the tremors that were still running across his chilled skin as he slid the coat on. He pulled the phone out and gave a little shrug as he looked at the display.

"Hey. What's up?"

"_Where are you?_" Bob's voice was hushed and echoing, as though he was whispering into the phone with his hand cupped over his mouth.

"We're out front by the car, we're coming—"

"_Don't go anywhere! I'm coming right out!_" The call disconnected and Sam pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at it with his eyebrows raised.

"Gonna share with the class, Sammy?" Dean asked as he leaned back against the trunk, adjusting the sling on his left arm impatiently. Sam was kind of amazed his brother had lasted the whole day with it in place.

Sam shrugged. "It was Bob. He's on his way out…" His voice trailed off when the front door of the inn opened and a head popped out, swiveling to check in every direction before the inn manager slipped outside, closing the door carefully behind him.

He darted towards them, stopping in the deep shadows under the trees that dotted the landscape between the door and the parking area. Each time he stopped he held himself still for a couple of seconds, his head turning to search the open area around the inn before he scurried forward to the next dark spot.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and Sam ran his hand over his face, holding it over his mouth to hide his grin. He was surprised that Dean managed to keep a straight face, just shaking his head slowly as Bob got closer.

"Dude…what the hell are you doing? You look like Inspector Clouseau."

Sam forced a cough, doing his best to disguise a quick snort of laughter.

Bob's elaborate eye roll was easy to see, even in the dark. "I'm trying to make sure we're not seen together now that you two are going undercover," he explained, 'duh' dripping from every syllable. He whispered out the side of his mouth to Sam. "He's not very good at this cloak and dagger stuff, is he."

It definitely wasn't a question and Sam didn't bother to disguise his laugh this time.

"Alright 007, what was so important you had to come out here and take a chance on blowing our cover?" Dean asked in an exaggerated whisper. He shrugged at Sam's scowl. "Hey, he started it."

"Gary is back, he's three sheets to the wind, and he's muttering about how he knew no good would come of something," Bob announced. He looked at Dean with his eyebrows raised. "Worth blowing your cover Mr. Bourne?"

A spark of excitement lit in Sam's belly and he leaned slightly forward, his attention focused on the small man. Dean pushed himself away from the trunk, his right hand reaching around to the small of his back. Sam knew his fingers would be running over the gun stashed there, reassuring himself that it was right where it was supposed to be.

"How do we know he didn't leave again while you were out here?" Dean frowned.

Bob pulled a key ring from his pocket and dangled it in front of Dean. "Because he's in the tavern and I took his keys before I let him get anything else to drink," he said with a smirk that put Dean's to shame. "So what's the plan, boys? How do we find out what he knows? Good cop, bad cop?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dial it back, Kojak. There's no 'we' in this. Sam and I will handle it."

Sam held his hand up in a calming gesture when he saw Bob's jaw clench stubbornly. "You can't get connected to us yet, Bob. We need you to keep your eyes open for Richard, and keep an eye on him for us whenever he gets back. People see you talking to Gary with us, and Richard is liable to hear about it. It's one thing for him to think we're using you, I'm not ready to step into him knowing you're working with us."

The stiffness in Bob's shoulders relaxed and he nodded his head, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "You're right. I'm more valuable as the inside man." He looked up with a wistful smile when Sam clamped a big hand on his shoulder in appreciation. "But I was _so_ looking forward to playing bad cop with you."

Sam's foot lashed out in a quick kick at Dean's shin as soon as he saw Dean's eyes light up and his mouth start to open. Sometimes the best defense is a good offense. "You said he's in the tavern? Is he with anybody?"

"He's planted himself in the corner with only a hefty dose of Jack to keep him company. I don't think anyone else is going to get near him. A mama grizzly with PMS would probably look more welcoming. You can't miss him. Big guy with red hair and a purple plaid flannel shirt." Bob shook his head sadly. "It's not a good color on him."

"You're hoping he's gonna lead us right to Reilly?" Dean addressed his question to Sam.

Sam nodded his head. That was _exactly_ what he was hoping would happen. "If the remains are in the barn, and it's as much of a mess as Bob says, then that's probably our best bet."

"Then we've got to figure out how we're going to do this. If he leads us to the barn we've got to get the remains out of there _now_ without being seen. We sure as hell can't do a salt and burn in the barn, and we can't wait till the middle of the night like we planned. This Gary character might not be able to keep his mouth shut that long and it could get tricky trying to sit on him for hours."

"Okay, listen…" Bob looked around the parking area and then leaned closer to them. He looked at the ground with his forehead creased in concentration and began to talk in a low whisper. "There are doors into all four sides of the barn. The front door goes through the gift shop, and there's a door on the tavern side, but they're both too obvious and someone could see you. The back wall has a large set of barn doors where they take the tractor and the utility cart in and out…but that may be padlocked…" His head shot up with an excited smile. "This is perfect! On the far side of the barn there's a small parking area. It's where Richard parks when he's working in the office. The fourth doorway is there. It leads to a hallway with doors to Richard's office and into the back of the gift shop. You can go straight through Richard's office and then into the rest of the barn. You can carry the bones out that door and no one will ever see you!" He was practically bouncing as he explained his idea, but he stopped suddenly with a thoughtful frown. "Should I be worried that a conversation about moving bones is exciting to me?"

"You think we should move the car over there?" Sam asked Dean. "Maybe give the Hancocks a call and see if we can use that graveyard again to burn them?"

Bob's head shook quickly back and forth in the negative, his raised index finger wagging in emphasis. "Not necessary. There's an old pickup truck parked over there that's used around the property." He directed a glare at Dean. "The keys are above the visor, you don't need to hotwire it."

Dean smiled in reply, not denying that he even knew _how_ to hotwire a car, and Bob rolled his eyes with a muttered "why am I not surprised?" before continuing. "You can take the truck and follow the small dirt road that runs out of the back of the parking area. You saw the trees off to the left out of your window, Sam? The road takes you past the pond and along the stream to a small bridge. Cross over and you'll have plenty of privacy on the other side of the trees. It's all our property and no one will bother you out there."

Bob gave a high pitched squeak of surprise when Dean's right arm landed across his shoulders. "Forget playing bad cop, dude. You've got the makings of a criminal mastermind," Dean told him with a smirk.

The little man leaned into Dean's side with a contented smile. "Dino, if you had two good arms…" he sighed.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Bob walked back into the building a few minutes before them and was no where in sight when they passed through the front room. The hallway was hushed as they moved down it, the somber mood of the tavern seeming to bleed through the walls.

Dean frowned as Sam reached for the tavern door, making a sudden decision. He grabbed Sam's arm and nodded his head toward the breakfast room in response to his brother's raised eyebrows. "Give me a hand first," he said quietly.

He led Sam into the empty room and moved out of sight of the open doorway, reaching up to release the Velcro on the strap rising from his wrist. "Help me get rid of this damn thing," he growled, turning sideways to give Sam access to the second strap that ran around his back, holding his arm still.

"Whoa…what are you doing?" Sam asked, his hands moving like he wanted to stop Dean.

"We're going in there to intimidate this guy into talking to us, right? I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to pull a gun in the tavern. The stronger we look to him, the better the chance this will go smoothly. And this, Sam?" Dean scowled at the sling "This doesn't exactly make me look strong. Now help me get the damn thing off."

Sam gave a quick nod and reached to release the strap. He moved into position in front of Dean when the strap was disconnected and began to carefully ease the canvas sheath away from Dean's arm, biting at his lower lip nervously.

"Dude! I'm not broken! My shoulder's just a little sore!" Dean grabbed the empty sling out of Sam's hand and threw it onto one of the chairs next to them. The sling had been in place since the night before, only being removed for a couple of minutes at a time when he needed to get dressed and get in and out of his jacket. He had immediately vetoed Sam's suggestion that the sling stay in place and Dean just wear his jacket over it, his left sleeve hanging empty. The only concession he had been willing to make to his mother hen little brother was to use his softer blue jacket instead of the leather. He'd let Sam think he'd won that one, and never tell him that the idea of a sling paired with his beloved leather was just…wrong.

He sighed with relief as he was finally able to straighten his arm. He began to move it cautiously, checking the range of motion in his shoulder. His lips curved up in a pleased grin when there was just a slight twinge from the bruised muscle. "Good as new!" he proclaimed, ignoring his brother's disbelieving snort and rolled eyes. His smile hardened into something closer to a snarl. "Let's go talk to Gary."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Dean stopped Sam as soon as they entered the tavern, his eyes worried. "Be straight with me Sammy. Do you feel her in here?"

The tavern was comfortably warm, the rich atmosphere a warm embrace, but he didn't feel drawn to it. He didn't feel that quiet touch to something inside of him that he felt in her presence. "No. I am picking up something…" His eyes narrowed in thought for a second. "Almost like I'm remembering Reilly's feelings about this place, how he felt at home here." He gave himself a little shake. "But that's it." He looked down as Dean and smirked slightly as he preempted what he knew his brother was about to say. "And don't worry, I'll tell you if that changes."

They moved away from the door and began to scan the room. Most of the conversations in the tavern were muted, a couple of groups of clueless tourists who knew nothing about the accident the only islands of sound. Gary was easy to spot, isolated back in the corner where Sam had been sitting the previous evening. Even without Bob's description they'd known who they were looking for. The process of elimination applied to the foursome of goons had left them with the man who had been holding Dean's arms. The same man who had eased his grip and looked guilty when he faced Sam's angry stare. The man who had seemed freaked by the violence on the side of the road. It looked like he had chosen a table away from everyone else, as though he wanted to be left alone.

He didn't notice their approach, his eyes fixed on the heavy glass tumbler in his hand and the amber liquid filling it. They stopped in front of the table and looked down at him silently. Their shadows across the wood were the first thing he noticed, and his watery blue eyes rose slowly until he saw their faces.

His look of shock was almost comical, wide eyed and open mouthed. It transformed almost instantly to a look of fear and he pushed his chair back from the table clumsily, seemingly surprised when he connected solidly with the wall behind him.

"Gary Mason." Dean's tone was soft and pleasant as he pulled out one of the chairs tucked under the table and lowered himself onto it. His smile was wide…and cold enough for Sam to feel the frost that bled from its edges.

Gary's head began to swing from side to side in a drunkenly exaggerated shake. "No no no. No way man. I ain't talking to you two. If you're gonna arrest me, go ahead. But I ain't freakin talking to you."

The brothers exchanged a quick look and Sam shrugged out of his jacket, laying it over the back of the empty seat next to Dean. There was nothing nonchalant in his movements when he leaned against the wall next to the table, looking down at the drunken man. He stayed close to his full height and folded his solid arms over his chest, tensing his muscles into a hard and imposing mass. He normally played down his size, but he wasn't against using it to intimidate someone if he had to. "Now why would you think we want to arrest you?" He kept his voice steady and allowed his lips to curve up slightly at the corners. Not as big a smile as Dean's, but just as hard.

Gary looked back and forth between them, tilting his head back to see Sam, and licked his lips nervously. He looked longingly at the openness of the tavern beyond them before his muscles sagged slightly. There was no way for him to get past them without a fight, and his heart just didn't seem to be into it.

He snatched up his drink and took a quick gulp. "You're gonna arrest me cause you can't get your hands on Quincy," he answered with a sick looking half smile. "He's a slippery bastard. He knows you ain't who you say you are. You know that right?" He fixed his eyes on Dean and seemed to wilt further under Dean's unblinking gaze. "He just ain't sure which group you're with." He gave a quick snort of laughter. "Guess it depends on what you're trying to get him on. So what is it? Tax evasion? Money laundering? Fraud? Racketeering?"

Sam felt a chill go down his spine. They'd known Richard Quincy was into some nasty stuff, but apparently they hadn't known the half of it.

Gary gulped down more of his drink before slamming the glass down onto the table. "Well go ahead and arrest me! Because I don't know shit about any of that!" He leaned across the table towards Dean, and Sam took a half a step forward with a low growl. Gary stilled but his face twisted into a snarl. "So go ahead and arrest me. You'll be doing me a favor. Cause if Quincy thinks I ran my mouth to you…I'm as good as dead."

Dean hadn't moved a muscle during Gary's outburst. Now he leaned back in his chair and let the smile fade from his face. "You mean dead like Nate and Pete?"

The change in Gary was instantaneous. He seemed to shrink back into his seat and his face paled to a shade of greenish white.

"You know you got bigger problems that whatever Quincy's into, don't you?" Sam's voice was hushed and he relaxed against the wall, dropping his intimidating stance. "When did you first realize you had stumbled into something you didn't understand? Was it when you first found the remains? When the accidents started along that stretch of road?" Tumblers clicked into place in Sam's mind as he put together the facts he knew and the personalities he'd observed. "Or maybe it was when you were sitting out there in the middle of the woods…next to the graves you desecrated…drinking yourself into a stupor." He caught Dean's slight start of surprise out of the corner of his eye but didn't look in his direction.

Gary fixed his eyes on the drink in front of him, his shaking fingers playing with the tumbler. "I don' know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

"Sure you do," Dean said with quiet confidence as he leaned towards the table again. "You felt something out near the graves that _you_ dug up. And you knew you stirred up some serious shit."

Gary didn't look up, his head shaking in slow denial. Sam stepped away from the wall and joined them at the table, settling down onto the chair that held his coat. "When did you first realize how bad it was? When you heard what the MacDougals saw before their accident? Is that why you were out there that night drinking? Trying to figure out if it was real…and just how screwed you were? Because we know Richard didn't send you."

The hand that Gary ran over his face was visibly trembling. He dropped it to the tabletop and looked up at Sam, his eyes wide and terrified. "I saw it that night. I was in the field and I saw it reaching for you out there. I thought it was going to kill you…and then kill me. It was so cold...and angry." His eyes shifted to Dean. "I don't know how you scared it away by shooting at it, but I think you saved my ass that night."

"Gary, buddy, that was just putting off the inevitable." Dean raised his right shoulder in a slight shrug. "It's only a matter of time. You know it wasn't a coincidence that Nate and Pete died there tonight, right? People got a little banged up in those other accidents, but it's no coincidence that the people who screwed with his grave died." He shook his head sorrowfully. "That crash tonight? That was some nasty stuff. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be you right now."

Sam leaned forward, his voice low and sincere. "It's real. You know it's real Gary. You felt it out there and you saw it. You know it's not going to rest until it takes care of all of you. Don't think you're safe if you stay away from that stretch of road. It's getting stronger and it can move around. When you moved the remains you freed it from that spot." Sam knew he was taking a chance when he started to weave a fantasy designed to terrify the man, but when he saw Gary flinch at the mention of moving the bones he knew they'd hit paydirt. "Sooner or later the thing you stirred up is going to come looking for you…but we can help you. If you help us, then we can help you."

The man bit his lip for a second but then scowled and shook his head. "How you gonna help me, man? Last I heard the feds weren't doing exorcisms. You gonna put me in protective custody with a priest to watch me or something? You're shoveling a load of crap and you want me to buy it so I'll give you dirt on Richard and then you're gonna leave me swinging in the wind. I ain't a fool." He sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. "I don't know nothing about nothing."

Dean's face hardened. He leaned further over the table and his voice came out in a low hiss. "You're not a fool? Then think about it. If we were just after Quincy for his shady business deals, then why were we out in that clearing? Why have we been checking out the history of this area? You assholes stirred up some nasty spirits and it's our job to take care of them before anyone else gets hurt. Anything we get on Quincy is a bonus and we'll pass it on to our buddies who are already working to bring him down. You want to get out of this in one piece? Then you start covering your ass right now by telling us everything you know."

Sam leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to slap his hand over his face. Apparently Dean was serious in the hospital when he said Sam should have used a mythical FBI X file unit as a cover. But damn if it didn't seem to be working. The township worker was crumbling before their eyes. His shoulders slumped as he let go of his brief burst of bravado and he scrubbed his hands over his face.

"We can get rid of the things you stirred up," Sam said softly. "And believe me, they're a hell of a lot more dangerous than Quincy."

When Gary dropped his hands his face was caught somewhere between hope and abject fear. "I don't know what info I can give you, man. I don't know nothing about all that shit Quincy's into. All I know is the stuff I seen and heard here."

"Start by telling us what happened in that clearing." Sam pressured quietly. "How this all started."

Gary gave a short choppy nod and his eyes dropped back to the glass tumbler. He blinked them several times as though he was trying to focus and Sam began to worry about just how drunk he was. The liquor was probably intensifying the man's fear of the supernatural and greasing his tongue…but it would be the world's unfunniest joke if the man with the information they needed were to suddenly faceplant into the table.

Sam relaxed slightly when Gary began to speak. His voice was a little steadier than Sam expected, a little clearer than it had been a minute before, as though the chance for redemption was sobering him. This was going to work.

"We were part of the crew…me and Nate?...that the town sent out to start clearing that land. Quincy paid for the surveying crew who marked it all out, but I guess it was part of the deal he had with the town that we start clearing it." He shook his head with a wry smile. "Friggin sweet deal. He was gonna make a shitload of money when he flipped it. Course none of us knew then how much he needed the money. We all thought it was just 'the rich gettin richer'…know what I mean?"

He looked up at them and Sam gave him a quick nod to keep him going.

"So me and Nate were working, pulling up stumps. Nate was on the backhoe and he pulls up this one stump and I seen something that didn't look right, kinda caught up in the roots. It was a old knife. So I had Nate hold up and I checked the hole, cause if there was more of that stuff…you know, me and Nate coulda snuck it out of there. You can get a lot of money for that old shit. But when I checked the hole, there was this…uhhh…" He picked up his drink and took a healthy swallow. "A skull. There was a freakin skull. And man…I just started to get the shakes. It was like I was standing on the North Pole or something, it was so friggin cold."

"Anybody else see it? Or just you and Nate?" Dean cut in.

"Nah, just us. It was the end of the day and everybody else was wrapping up. I wanted to call the supe right away, let him know, but Nate said no. Said it could gum up the works and maybe we could get some money from Quincy if we kept it quiet. So we covered it up and went to see him that night."

"Man…I ain't never seen anybody get so mad." Gary shook his head and took another sip of his drink. "He had Pete and Chauncey with him and he was throwing things, yelling about how the bodies weren't supposed to be there, how some worthless bitch got the distance wrong. I thought he was gonna kill Nate and me. But then Chauncey talked to him, got him calmed down. We all went out there that night and did some digging."

"What happened when the town's crew came back the next day?" Dean shared a quick frown with Sam. There was no way they had the time to do a complete search in that one night.

"There was no next day," Gary smirked. "Goddamn Hancocks saved the day when they got the work stopped." He gave a quick snort of laughter. "They did Quincy a big favor and they didn't even know it. We went out there a whole bunch of nights. Broke our backs searching through that area. Not Quincy, he stayed away. It was me and Nate and Pete and Chauncey. Pete and Chauncey used to talk to each other when they thought me and Nate weren't paying attention. Talked about how Richard was in trouble with some big guys in Boston. But the money he could make off the land deal would be enough to take care of things." A shudder worked its way through the red haired man and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the tumbler fiercely. "We picked up anything that looked like it might be important. And the whole time it was so friggin cold…and you could just feel that something wasn't right. It was sad and angry like. And I knew it. I just knew it. We shouldn't a been messin there."

Sam eyed the frightened man, searching for any sign that he was aware of his own abilities. He had felt Dean tense next to him and knew that his brother had also picked up on it. The funny thing was, he didn't think Gary himself had any clue that he was sensitive. That no one else…except Sam…had been able to feel Reilly's emotions. His abilities didn't seem to be even close to Sam's, but they were strong enough to make Gary a firm believer that he was in serious danger from Reilly.

Gary continued without prompting, as though happy to finally be edging the burden onto other people who wouldn't think he was crazy. "After we got the site cleaned up, Quincy started giving me and Nate a few bucks to do some stuff around here. Working on the grounds and everything. I think he just wanted to make sure we were in his pocket so when he finally owned the land we could be part of the crew that 'found' the bones. Man…I just wanted to put them back in the ground when it was time and be done with it. You know…undo what we done." He looked up at them with narrowed eyes and the corner of his lip curled. "And then you two showed up and it all went to hell."

"It wouldn't have worked, you know," Sam said softly. "The damage was done. Reburying the bones wouldn't have saved you."

Gary hung his head, the brief spark of resentment fading away. "I guess you got more right to be pissed at me than I do to be pissed at you. I'm sorry about hitting you out there man. I was just sitting out there trying to figure out if I'd imagined everything, you know? I…" He shrugged tiredly. "I panicked when you two showed up."

"What I don't get," Dean said, his eyes narrowing "is how Quincy even found out we were checking out the clearing. If he didn't send you out there, why'd you tell him?"

The redhead edged back further in his chair as though trying to get out of Dean's reach. "I'm sorry, man. I'm really sorry. I didn't know who you guys were. I thought that if Quincy heard someone was poking around he would just say we should get rid of the bones, maybe bury them again. And then this thing could be done. So I told Nate I saw that big car parked on the side of the road when I drove by, and that I saw you in town hall. He told Quincy. I didn't know Quincy would get as nuts as he did. I didn't know Chauncey and Pete were such animals and would go after you like that."

Sam rubbed his sore stomach. "Your brother-in-law wasn't exactly an angel either. What happened tonight?"

Gary raised his glass slowly and took a small sip. He rubbed the back of his left hand over his eyes and cleared his throat before he answered. "Tonight I got my sister's husband killed," he said softly. "I was supposed to drive around, see if I could spot that boat you drive. I came here and Quincy and Chauncey were already gone, so I told Pete I saw it at the Historic Society's building and Pete dragged Nate out of here. I don't know what they had planned, I swear. A little while later Frankie came in…a buddy of mine…and told me bout the crash. As soon as he told me I knew…I just knew where they musta crashed. I knew it was finally happening. I left…I hadda be with my sister…but I could barely look her in the eye. If I hadn't said anything tonight Nate might still be alive. He was an asshole, but my sister loved him."

"We're going to do what we can to stop the spirit before anybody else gets hurt," Sam reassured him. "But we need to know where the remains are to do that."

"I can take you right to them. We put everything in a wooden crate. It's been sitting right out in the barn."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Well, I'm back

**A/N: **Well, I'm back. Again. Keep in mind that I am a person who suffers terrible pangs of guilt if I don't reply to comments or go even a week between updates. As to my current disappearance from the internet…let's just say I have been wishing a horrific fate upon anyone even remotely connected to the creation and distribution of malware. And the collateral damage of trying to rid myself from a particularly pernicious attack…sigh. My computer is currently a frustrating mess. If you are reading this, it means I was able to transfer at least some files onto a different computer. I'll have limited access to the second computer so will most likely have to confine myself to story updates.

Story updates…the up side to the trouble is, at least Word was still functioning. So Highwayman is pretty much completed. So, if I can update at all, the updates should only be a few days apart. Just long enough for me to edit and do slight revisions to each chapter.

Please please please protect yourself and your computer by having as strong a security system in place as possible. Mine was inadequate, and even though I'm very careful about the sites I go on, an attack has crippled my internet capabilities. All it took was a second on a site I've visited thousands of times before safely. I believe it changed servers or something recently and BAM! As soon as I connected to the site I heard things starting to download. The fallout has not been pretty and it is liable to be very expensive to fix.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

Here's a slightly updated version of the **Brief Recap** of plot and characters that I included with the last chapter because of earlier problems:

1770s Massachusetts: Elizabeth Benjamin (Bess)—tavern/inn owner's daughter. Daniel Reilly—Highwayman and Bess' lover. Catherine—mayor's daughter, artist, writer, Bess' best friend. George Quincy—works at tavern/inn and eventually takes it over and marries Catherine.

2006 Massachusetts: Bob—Ya'll know who Bob is. LOL. Richard Quincy—current owner of Benjamin Inn. Chauncey McDermott and Pete Ricci—Boston goons working for Quincey. Nate Ryan and his brother-in-law Gary Mason—local goons who work for the town and do work for Quincy on the side.

Okay, when we left off the boys discovered the salt and burn of Bess' remains didn't work, something else was holding her. They found Catherine's journal and Reilly's sword in Richard's room and stole them. Information they found indicates that Reilly and the other men missing in the 1770s were betrayed by someone they knew, killed by the British, and buried in Robber's Woods. Richard Quincey's land deal involving the woods is kaput. Richard and Chauncey have left for Boston. Pete and Nate were killed in a crash caused by Reilly and the brother's have to find Reilly's remains for a salt and burn.

Gary returned to the tavern, feeling guilty and frightened and filled in some gaps. It was him that hit Dean with the shovel, Richard Quincy is tied in to some nasty illegal activities, and the bones are in the barn. Gary is slightly more frightened of the ghost than he is of Quincy (but only slightly) and has agreed to lead the Winchesters—2 Feds who deal with paranormal activity—to the bones so they can 'save' him.

And most importantly…Bob still has very good taste and still has the hots for both brothers.

From Chapter 13:

_Gary raised his glass slowly and took a small sip. He rubbed the back of his left hand over his eyes and cleared his throat before he answered. "Tonight I got my sister's husband killed," he said softly. "I was supposed to drive around, see if I could spot that boat you drive. I came here and Quincy and Chauncey were already gone, so I told Pete I saw it at the Historic Society's building and Pete dragged Nate out of here. I don't know what they had planned, I swear. A little while later Frankie came in…a buddy of mine…and told me bout the crash. As soon as he told me I knew…I just knew where they musta crashed. I knew it was finally happening. I left…I hadda be with my sister…but I could barely look her in the eye. If I hadn't said anything tonight Nate might still be alive. He was an asshole, but my sister loved him."_

"_We're going to do what we can to stop the spirit before anybody else gets hurt," Sam reassured him. "But we need to know where the remains are to do that."_

"_I can take you right to them. We put everything in a wooden crate. It's been sitting right out in the barn."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 14**

The wind had died down in the short amount of time they were in the tavern, leaving the night still and cold. Individual large clouds, ghostly galleons in the dark expanse above them, scudded across the sky. A door at the end of the east wing deposited them next to a well groomed gravel drive that ran back towards the barn's small parking area. A screen of bushes along the side of the drive hid them from anyone going in or out of the tavern until they were close to the front of the barn. A small break in the hedge there led to the brick patio in front of the gift shop that was tucked into this end of the barn. They checked that no one was outside of the tavern before crossing quickly past the gap, just two shadows disappearing silently into the deeper darkness on the side of the barn.

Dean's shoulders relaxed when they saw the form waiting for them by the side door. They didn't want to be seen leaving the tavern together and so had departed in opposite directions. Gary had gone straight out of the tavern door to the rear of the inn while the brothers had nonchalantly gone through the French doors, heading into the inn. A quick stop in the kitchen to liberate a small canister of salt had only slowed them down for a minute, but the longer the local man was out of their sight, the more nervous Dean got. He seemed pretty committed to helping them save his butt, but you never could tell with a frightened dimwit.

Gary looked small standing next to the barn's side door, his considerable bulk beaten down by fear. His fingers were clasped tight around a leather fob, a single key dangling from it. He hunched his shoulders when he saw them approaching and lifted a trembling hand to fit the key into the deadbolt.

The truck was exactly where Bob had said it would be, an F150 that looked like it was at least twenty years old. Sam made a brief detour to check that the keys were actually above the visor and gave Dean a quick nod as he moved to join them by the door.

The door itself was not what you would expect on the side of a barn. A heavy polished wood with raised panels on the bottom half and leaded glass window panes set into the top half. It opened silently on greased hinges and Gary led them into the building's dark interior.

They were in a hallway that ran the width of the structure. A matching outside door on the opposite end admitted a bit of light from the fixtures outside of the tavern. It was enough to see the shape and length of the hall, but none of the detail. Gary reached towards a switch on the wall and flipped it several times with no result.

"Shit." The curse came out on a soft sigh. "I was hoping they figured out something and got it working again," he explained. He pulled open a door in the wall next to them and stepped partway into the dark space. When he emerged he handed large flashlights to both brothers, keeping one for himself.

"Convenient," Dean remarked wryly.

"They told me the electric has always had some problems out here, but it didn't get this bad until…uhhh…" He shuddered and then finished in a rush, "until we started moving the stuff we found into here. Even the backup generator don't work no more. Christ, flashlights can even be temperamental sometimes. It's so bad we had to set up lanterns to have enough light to work on anything at night." He flipped his flashlight on, the wide beam momentarily blinding after the darkness. "I hate this friggin building," he muttered.

Their eyes adjusted quickly to the light and Dean whistled softly. "I take it this isn't the way the cows go in and out." The floor under their feet was some type of stone tile and paintings lined the hallway.

Gary shook his head. "Yeah. Ain't this shit? It's a friggin barn. I guess Quincy brings business people through here to his office, but still. No wonder he ended up with money problems. He sure knew how to waste it." There was a definite undertone of bitterness to his words.

"Nobody twisted your arm to go along with him," Dean pointed out. He didn't have his brother's generous and forgiving nature. Every time his shoulder gave a twinge he wanted to hit the guy with a solid object. Like maybe a shovel. Sam's foot kicked lightly against the back of his boot, a silent warning not to alienate the man who was leading them right to the prize, and he bit back any further comments.

The big man shrugged just one shoulder and hung his head slightly. "Yeah, yeah, I know. C'mon, let's get this done." His feet were practically dragging as he led them towards a six panel door on one side of the hall, and Dean realized that his comments were a deliberate distraction from the task at hand. A delaying tactic. This area of the building might make the local man uneasy, but going deeper into the barn terrified him.

There was an additional deadbolt on the office door, but it wasn't engaged and Gary pushed the door open reluctantly. Dean turned his own flashlight on and its wide beam combined with Gary's did a decent job of illuminating the spacious office in front of them.

"Wow." Sam pushed past them and began walking around the room. Dean agreed with the surprise in his brother's voice. The room was exactly the luxurious working space they would expect after seeing Richard's suite, with heavy wooden bookshelves and a tennis court sized desk, but it looked as though Oscar Madison had been hired to handle the housekeeping. Every drawer in the room seemed to have been left open, in the desk and the file cabinets. Papers were strewn around the polished wooden floor, an especially large pile of them in front of a tall filing cabinet on the opposite wall. It looked like drawers had been pulled out and just dumped there. Empty cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly between one side of the desk and a set of tall bookshelves.

Gary's gasp was a harsh sound of shock and the beam from his flashlight began to waver slightly.

"I take it this isn't normal?" Dean asked with his eyebrows raised.

"N…no. I know they moved stuff out of here today, but this… I don't get it." He looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Could it have been…you know…" he nodded his head towards a door in the opposite wall that Dean assumed led into the barn itself, and the remains stashed there.

Dean shrugged. He'd seen pissed off spirits cause more damage than this, but there was something about this mess that just wasn't sitting right.

"Dean, check this out," Sam said from next to the desk, his voice low. He flipped his light on as Dean neared and pointed.

A large CPU sat on the floor next to the desk. Or what was left of it. The outside casing had been pulled off and it looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the hard drive inside. Sam moved the flashlight slightly, directing Dean's attention to the cardboard boxes near the desk. They weren't as empty as Dean had originally thought. They were stuffed with rags and crumpled newspapers.

"Real subtle," Sam said under his breath, his mouth twisted in disgust. His eyes flickered deliberately in Gary's direction, the suspicion clear.

The big man was doing a pretty good job of looking shocked, but Papa Winchester didn't raise no fools. Dean nonchalantly put his own flashlight down on the desk and stepped away from Sam, waiting until Sam had smoothly pulled the Beretta from the back of his pants before talking.

"Gary, buddy, we believe you're sincere here, man, but we just gotta make sure. Put your flashlight on that chair next to you and then turn and put your hands on the wall."

Gary looked at him, his face twisted in confusion and Dean nodded at the gun in Sam's hands. "Just a precaution. But I should warn you, Sam's not a real good shot. Hell, he could aim for your leg to just slow you down, and there's no telling where the bullet'd end up."

His head nodding quickly up and down in understanding, Gary dropped the flashlight onto the wing chair next to him and twirled to smack his hands onto the wall above his head. He leaned into the wall with his legs spread behind him and Dean almost laughed. Either the guy was no stranger to being patted down by the police, or he'd watched a few too many episodes of _Cops_.

Sam looked at Dean and rolled his eyes, and Dean had to agree. Gary wasn't playing them. Whatever was going on, Gary was as much in the dark as they were. Dean made quick work of searching the big man, a neat trick considering he was trying not to overuse his left arm. He handed the flashlight back with an apologetic smile when he was finished. "Sorry. We had to be sure."

"S'okay. I shoulda expected it," the big man said with a shrug. He actually seemed a little steadier, as though their display of official police procedure was somehow reassuring. "We better…" he nodded at the door into the back of the barn and visibly gulped. Okay, he was steadier but still terrified. He moved towards the door as though he was heading towards the gallows.

Dean stepped back to the desk to retrieve his light. He couldn't clearly see Sam behind the glare of the flashlight he was holding, but he could make out the tense set of his shoulders and the way they were moving in little jerks, as though his brother was ready to hyperventilate. "Sammy? You okay?" he asked softly.

Sam's head jerked towards him as though he was surprised by Dean's voice and he nodded slowly, his shoulders hunching up slightly in a picture of embarrassment. "Yeah, sorry. I'm…it's just…" He shook himself and fixed Dean with a steady look. "We need to take care of Reilly. I'm getting a real bad feeling here."

Dean's eyes skimmed the trashed office around them. "You're not the only one."

They moved to the door and stood on either side of Gary. The man seemed lost in his own world, just staring at the door with wide eyes. He finally reached a hand to check that the deadbolt was unlocked with a small sigh. His face screwed up into a grimace as his hand dropped to the knob. He looked up in surprise when Sam's hand on his wrist stopped him from opening the door. Sam's eyes shot towards Dean and Dean replied with a terse nod of understanding.

Sam stepped between Gary and the door, gently edging the frightened man back into a safer position. Dean slid slightly to the side, withdrawing the gun from its place in his waistband as he moved into a better position to cover his brother . The salt canister in his inside coat pocket would definitely be of more use against Reilly than the gun, but pissed off ghosts weren't the only thing they had to worry about. His stomach clenched in anticipation as Sam reached for the doorknob, the small rush of adrenaline into his system a familiar feeling. It was time to get down to business.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The knob was cold under Sam's hand, frigid against his skin. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs as he slowly pulled the door open. His nerves were thrumming, he just couldn't tell if it was because he was actually picking up disquieting vibes from the structure around them, or merely the anticipation of finally ending this.

The area beyond the doorway was a black void, the dimensions of the barn lost in the gloom. Subtle air currents drifted through the darkness and the sounds of their movements near the door disappeared easily into the shadows, giving the impression of a cavernous space beyond the door's small opening.

Dean stepped silently forward, his flashlight held before him. Sam raised his own light and the combined beams ran across a small clear area in front of the door before being stopped dead by a large tarp covered mass several feet in front of them. It was a little over six feet high and seemed to extend a good distance to their left, but the end of it was visible to the right. It was an effective barrier, preventing them from seeing any farther into the barn from the relatively safe vantage point of the doorway.

Gary pushed past them, turning to the right as soon as he was through the door and moving towards the tavern side of the barn. The only sign of the alcohol in his system was a slight tilt to his frame. His flashlight lit the area in front of him, but the shadows on either side pressed close, trying to swallow him. The light played over a large shelving unit against the barn's wooden plank wall and a stack of boxes sitting on the floor in front of it. Gary's goal sat on top of the boxes, a large camping lantern.

The brothers followed him towards the side wall, their footsteps soft on the barn's wooden floor. Sam paused when he reached the end of the tarp covered barrier that had blocked their view from the door and lifted his light to the left, towards the back of the barn. The cone of light didn't extend as far into the darkness as he would have liked, the edges bleeding off into a murky twilight and then dwindling to black. What it did reveal was confusing at best. On the left side of the barn there were additional tarp covered mounds lined up parallel to the first one, with what looked like aisles between them. The right, tavern side, wall was a mismatched jumble, additional tall shelving units interspersed with stacked boxes and tall white forms that had Sam scratching his head. Fluted columns, lattice panels, what looked like a dismantled archway… There seemed to be no order to the arrangement, as though everything had been carried in and placed in the nearest convenient spot. Some items were right up against the shelves, others stood a couple of feet away. No wonder Bob had been doubtful that they would be able to find the remains. In the hazy light and distorted shadows cast by the flashlights it looked exactly like what Bob had called it. A huge maze.

Currents of cold air swirled lazily in this part of the barn and a chill ran down Sam's back. He could feel the heat of his brother's breath against the side of his neck as Dean came to stand behind his shoulder.

"Crap." Dean's voice was a breathy whisper in his ear and Sam froze, his eyes narrowing as they followed the beam of Dean's flashlight. A hazy white figure stood in the jumbled mess, just beyond the reach of the light. It stood next to one of the tall white columns, its movements slight and indistinct in the shifting shadows. Sam raised his own light to join his brother's.

A soft _snik_ sounded from Gary's direction and a silver glow began to spread as he touched the flame of his lighter to the lantern's wick. The glow gained strength and the circle of light spread farther as he carefully adjusted the wick, seemingly oblivious to the white figure.

"What the hell is that?" The annoyance was clear in Dean's voice and Sam's shoulders slumped, the quick burst of adrenaline easing.

The white form was still there and still partially transparent, but it took on detail in the combined lights. Sam let out a soft huff of laughter. "It's tulle. They probably use it for bunting or swagging when they use the rest of this stuff."

"Do I even want to know what 'bunting and swagging' is?" Dean muttered before stepping away from Sam and raising his voice. "Gary, what the hell is all of this junk?"

"It's the crap they use for weddings and parties out by the pond when it's nice out. They got some kind of deal with a local caterer for the food." He pointed at the long tarp covered mounds. "That's all tables and chairs and flooring and canopies and shit. Took me and Nate a few days to jam all this shit in here when we first started working around here." He waved his hand to encompass the columns and other props. "This shit is frggin heavy."

That explained the haphazard placement of the items. The lantern light revealed a large selection of catering supplies stacked high on the free standing shelves. Chafing dishes, cartons of china and glass, stacks of tablecloths wrapped in plastic, cases of sterno… Sam didn't know where he would even start if he had to search the shelves.

"I thought this was a barn, not a party warehouse," Dean grumbled as he swung the flashlight, catching the glitter of silver candelabras and crystal punch bowls.

The light in Gary's hand was shaking as he walked rapidly past them, heading towards the aisle between the first two covered mounds. "There ain't no animals if that's what you were expecting, but there is more normal stuff in the back by the big doors. I just ain't goin' back there till I get more light. This place gives me the creeps."

"Christ, I could see why," Dean added into Sam's ear, his flashlight beam fixed on large glittery wedding bells and a stuffed white dove hanging from part of an archway. "Now _that's_ scary," he whispered.

Sam shook his head as they moved forward, trying to keep an eye on Gary as he disappeared between the long mounds. The reflected glow of his flashlight above the top of the tarps let them keep track of his position even before they reached the end of the aisle. Until the light dimmed and then went black, accompanied by the sound of vicious cursing.

They reached the end of the aisle and Sam took a half a step backwards when he was hit by a cold breeze that seemed to be channeling through the valley between the two low hills of party furniture. There wasn't enough room to stand shoulder to shoulder in the opening and Sam let out an exasperated sigh when Dean immediately pushed in front of him. The cursing was still going strong and their lights revealed Gary almost at the opposite end of the aisle, banging his flashlight against his palm.

Gary looked up at them, squinting his eyes against the glare. "Like I told ya, it ain't just the electric and the generator. We've had a hell of a time with flashlights in here too ever since…" he nodded his head towards the back of the barn "…ever since…you know."

"Ever since you robbed a bunch of graves and brought the bones back here?" Sam didn't need to see Dean's face to know that his brother's mouth was twisted in a mocking smirk as he made the comment. He swatted the back of Dean's head when Gary shuddered and almost dropped the flashlight.

"OW! What was that for?" Dean twisted to scowl over his shoulder at Sam.

"We need his help! Can you please not scare him into running out of here before he leads us to Reilly's remains?" Sam hissed in Dean's ear.

Dean gave a small shrug. "Nah, he's not going anywhere." He raised his voice and aimed it towards the red-haired man. "Right Gar? You know the only way you're getting out from under this is to lead us to the remains."

Gary nodded his head rapidly and continued thumping his flashlight. The light flickered and then came back on, but the big man didn't look any less terrified. "Thas why we have to use the lanterns. They're the only thing seems to work with no problem." He turned away from them and scurried out of the far end of the aisle.

Sam moved towards the back of the barn, trying to parallel Gary's movements. The lantern light didn't make it past the center point of the manmade valleys and Gary's side of the barn was heavily wreathed in shadows, the only light coming from his flickering flashlight.

Fear was speeding the big man's movements and keeping track of him was like a warped game of hide and seek. Sam caught just a glimpse of Gary's light moving past the end of the second aisle and he skirted quickly around the edge of the third mound, cursing as he had to pick his way around the piles of props. There were four of the long tarp covered mounds all together, but the one closest to the office door seemed to be the only one that ran almost to the far wall without interruption. The other three weren't as solid, breaks along their lengths suggesting that each of the mounds was made up of two separate stacks of furniture that were lined up with each other. There was a narrow walkway between their ends and additional shelves and piles of junk against the far wall.

Sam could hear Dean in back of him, hanging back several feet. He didn't have to look to know his brother would be checking out the details of the 'tavern side' wall, looking for unforeseen hazards and basically covering their rear.

The edge of Gary's shoulder was visible at the end of the third aisle, a silhouette outlined by his own light. The rest of his body was hidden by the fourth mound. Sam turned his flashlight away from the aisle and towards the large space in the back of the barn, beyond the mounds of stacked furniture.

From where he stood he had a view of the back corner on the tavern side. It was no less cluttered than what they'd seen so far, but at least these items would meet with his brother's approval. A large tool cabinet and leaning ladders took up space in the corner. Shelves against the wall next to them were heavily loaded down with oil, engine parts, coiled hoses…all of the junk you would expect to see in a garden shed. A rich man's garden shed. A John Deere lawn tractor was parked near the back wall, different attachments lined up next to it. A powerful looking utility ATV parked next to it would definitely get Dean's mouth watering.

The soft _snik_ of Gary's lighter was easy to hear in the quiet barn and Sam returned his attention to the far end of the aisle. Lantern light began to spread on that side of the barn and Gary's shoulder moved out of sight. His voice drifted to them through lingering shadows. "Get your asses back here, I ain't standing here by myself waiting."

Sam looked over at Dean and tilted his head to the side, indicating he was going to move down the aisle. Dean gave a brief nod and pointed with his flashlight. He would keep moving along the side wall of the barn and meet Sam at the back.

The area between the tarp covered stacks was still dark when Sam stepped into it, their bulk blocking the light from both lanterns. They were just tall enough that Sam couldn't see over their tops without getting up on his toes. He was tempted to stomp his feet as he moved down the aisle, the soft whisper of sound his footsteps were currently making doing nothing to ease the goosebumps that were chasing each other down his back. He stepped through the gap at the halfway point of the last mound, happy to be out of the claustrophobic aisle. Gary was fiddling with a third lantern near the back wall and Sam ran his flashlight beam over the open area around him. Like the corner he had already checked out, this area held a wealth of outdoor equipment and supplies. It was a little neater than the front half of the barn, but just as packed.

The wick caught and the extra light revealed stacked bags and boxes of everything from grass seed to pavement deicers. Pegs on the back wall held shovels and rakes and a variety of other long handled tools. A chain saw and other gas powered tools shared shelf space with hand tools, jugs of liquid pesticide, and a row of extra lanterns. Two huge barbeque grills took up space near the back corner.

A soft curse marked Dean's approach as he stumbled over the wheel of a small garden chipper. He was shaking his head when he came to stand by Sam. "We'd have needed the Hancock's excavator to search this place without our buddy here."

"Somehow I don't think we'd have had enough time." Sam wasn't surprised at the puffs of mist floating in front of his face as he talked. He was fighting the urge to close his arms over his chest in an attempt to get warm. Reaching the back of the barn had been like stepping into an ice box. He gave a short nod before Dean could even ask the inevitable question. "Yeah, I think it's Reilly."

Dean's hand was a solid weight on his shoulder, swinging him around slightly so Dean could see his face. His brother's expression was set in a scowl, but Sam could see the worry behind the tough exterior. "Are you okay? Is he messing with you? Maybe you should wait outside and I'll take care of this."

Sam immediately began to shake his head at the idea, his jaw clenched tight. "No. No way. I don't think Reilly wants to hurt me, but I don't think he's too fond of Gary. I'm not leaving you alone in here with a guy who's got a big bulls eye painted on his back." He was careful to keep his voice too low for Gary to hear. The red haired man already looked like he was ready to bolt out the wide barn doors in the center of the back wall. He was standing in the center of the piled bags and boxes, his head searching from side to side in little jerky movements as though he expected something to leap out at him any second.

"Gar!" Dean dropped his hand from Sam's shoulder as he called out. "Let's get going here. Time's a wasting."

The big man actually gave a small leap of fear at the sudden yell. "You're sure…you're sure this is going to work?" he stammered, his voice soft and shaking "Because he's…something's…"

"Yeah, we know. That's why we need you to help us. Right now. Okay?" Sam did his best to make his voice soothing, trying to ignore the churning in his gut that seemed to get stronger with every second that they delayed. Gary locked eyes with him and Sam knew that he could feel it too, that slight whisper of anger in the air around them.

"Okay, okay, yeah, okay." Gary spoke in a quiet mumble, but he was moving. He crossed to several wooden crates stacked next to a clear spot on the side wall. There were large bags of grass seed piled up around and partially on top of the crates. He grabbed the top bag and grunted as he threw it to the side. "Give me a hand. We've got to move all this shit to get to it."

Sam pulled Dean back as he reached for a bag. He nodded at Dean's shoulder with his eyebrows raised. "We'll take care of this."

Dean eyed the pile they were working on and gave his shoulder a small roll before he nodded. "Yeah, it's okay now but I probably shouldn't push it." His eyes narrowed into a glare that might have been trying for fierce but was betrayed by a slight smirk. "Make it quick. I'm freezing my ass off."

Lifting the bags and throwing them to the side took the edge off of the jumpiness building in Sam. The bags were heavy and they worked quickly, the physical strain loosening and warming his muscles. It only took a couple of minutes to move all of the grass seed away from the crates, and Gary stood looking down at the wooden boxes with his eyes screwed up in concentration.

"I don't think they've been moved since the last time we…uh…added something, but keep your eyes on the numbers. It was box number four."

The crates were each about five feet long and a couple of feet wide. Paper labels on the outside identified them as being part of a 'Heritage Cedar Gazebo' kit and each was individually numbered. Gary nodded at the crate closest to them and he and Sam moved to opposite ends. Sam was surprised at how heavy it was. They weren't taking chances on anyone stumbling onto the remains by accident.

"Back up, there's room to put them down in back of you," Gary bit out through clenched teeth. Dean sprang forward, placing his hand on Sam's back to help guide him backwards as they shuffled to a clear spot a few feet from the stack. They moved three crates altogether, finally just dropping the last crate on top of a decrepit wheelbarrow when it was too heavy to lift onto the top of the first two they had stacked together. Sam heaved a sigh of relief when he was free of the weight, shaking his arms out to relieve the burn in his muscles.

Gary rubbed his hands together and rolled his shoulders, shooting Sam a quick grin. "You're stronger than you look. Took three of us to move them before." The smile fell away and he turned towards the remaining crates with his lips pressed together in a firm line. He pointed at an innocent looking box that their work had revealed. The number four was stenciled on it in a couple of places. "You wanna grab the end and we'll carry it right out of here? It's a lot lighter than the other ones cause the gazebo stuff ain't in it no more."

"No offense, but I think we better check it before we take it anywhere. I'm getting the feeling you're not exactly in the loop with these guys." Dean's tone made it clear he really didn't care if Gary took offense or not.

"Then we'll need the crowbar," Gary said, nodding at the shelf of garden tools. Sam grabbed the tool as Gary knelt down next to the crate, pulling it clear of the remaining boxes.

The lantern light began to flicker as soon as the prying edge of the tool was inserted under the crate's top. Gary began to work rapidly, moving the crowbar down the length of the lid and prying it up as he went. The wood released its hold on the nails reluctantly, each one screeching as it was pulled part way out.

The temperature felt like it was slowly dropping as he worked and Sam's eyes searched the area around them in the wavering light. Reilly seemed stronger out by the road, more in control of things in the physical world. If he gained the same control while they were in the barn it wouldn't be pretty. They were surrounded by more potential weapons than he could count. He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, partially to keep warm and partially because his adrenaline was seeking some type of physical release.

"Can we take it right out those doors?" Sam pointed to the double doors that were less than twenty feet away.

Gary didn't even look up as he answered, cursing under his breath at a stubborn nail that wouldn't come free. "There's a chain and padlock on the outside. Those doors ain't opening without the key, and I ain't got it."

The flashlight in Dean's hand went dead and he shook it a couple of times before tossing it down with a curse. He pulled the salt from his jacket pocket and looked at the canister with a scowl. "Sammy? Any suggestions?"

"A circle?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Around what, genius? He's connected to the crate and that's what we've got to work on."

"I don't know, Dean!" Sam bit out as he turned in a slow circle. He swore the tools hanging on the wall were starting to vibrate. "Just throw salt if he starts to move anything."

"It ain't fairy dust Sam. It's not going to do anything if I just throw it into the air and think good thoughts. Told you we should of brought the shotgun in," Dean grumbled as he poured salt into his hand. Sam was pretty sure he caught the words 'pitchfork' and 'Chainsaw massacre' as Dean continued to talk under his breath.

"There are too many people going in and out of the tavern. The local cops show up and we'll never get to the remains."

Dean caught his eye and dropped the snark that was a normal part of their hunting. "Seriously dude, this gets any worse and we're out of here. We'll come back after the tavern is closed and cut the chain so we can go right in and out of those doors. And we'll bring the shotgun." The flashlight that Dean had thrown to the ground began to blink on and off creating a strobe like effect around their feet. Dean looked down and his face twisted in a grimace. "That's just plain creepy. How you doing there, Gar?" he called out the last, his tone trying to hurry things.

"Almost got it," Gary grunted. "Nate was a little nail happy." He reached the end of the lid and shoved the crowbar in, levering it upwards. "That should do it."

There was a big enough gap for him to get a solid grip on the lid and he began to tug upwards, trying to pull the nails completely free. Sam jumped forward and grabbed the rough wood, adding his weight to Gary's. There was a moment of resistance but then the nails popped loose and the lid flew upwards.

Sam felt like someone had drenched him in ice water. Gary stumbled backwards with a harsh gasp, his eyes opening wide. Behind them a shovel fell from its perch on the wall, banging against the wheelbarrow when it landed. "Dean? Ideas?"

Dean looked at the salt in his hand and gave a little shrug before tossing it in an arc so that it sprinkled down over the contents of the crate.

"That's your idea?!" Sam asked, his eyebrows almost to his hairline as another tool fell.

The lantern light was the first to recover, the flame straightening and burning steadily. Dean's flashlight stopped strobing and a hush fell over the barn as the frigid cold retreated and a more normal chill returned to the air.

"Yep, well it worked, didn't it?" Dean said with a smirk.

"For now," Sam acknowledged as he knelt next to the crate. He couldn't resist a quickly whispered "Dumb luck." The wooden box had been emptied of its original contents and a layer of excelsior placed in the bottom. Something twisted in Sam's chest at the sight of the items nestled in the soft shredded wood. So little remained to show the passing of those men so long ago. There were three skulls in the box, and a collection of bones that he could never hope to identify. Most were just pieces, only a couple of long heavy bones surviving the centuries intact. Bits of corroded metal shared space with the bones. The knife Gary mentioned, a large buckle… All that remained to mark lives that had ended too soon.

He hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a second, his knuckles whitening where he was holding the edges of the crate. There was a rustle of cloth and the warmth of a body lowering itself beside him.

"So they only disturbed three of the graves for sure," Dean said quietly. "How do we know if Reilly's is one of them? If they were his men and he felt responsible for them maybe it was just their remains being dug up that got him started."

Sam opened his eyes and reached silently into the crate. His hand hovered over the contents for a second before he began to move a few unidentifiable pieces out of the way. He didn't question how he knew what he was looking for, he just accepted that it would be there. His fingers closed over a piece of metal and he pulled it up into the lantern light. It was a few inches long and roughly oval shaped with the ends slightly pointed. One side was flat, but there was an 'S' shaped piece of metal attached to the other side.

Dean lifted a flashlight to give Sam light as his thumb gently rubbed dried dirt off of the surface. Sam wasn't surprised that Dean was holding his questions in. He'd figured that eventually his brother would get tired of hearing "I don't know how I knew, I just knew."

The 'S' shape became clearer as the dried dirt flaked away, it was even possible to see the way it was attached to the flat piece. "It's the lock plate and hammer from a flintlock pistol," Sam said softly. He rubbed a little harder on the flat metal behind where the hammer was attached and engraved marks became visible on the lock plate. He turned it towards Dean without a word. It wasn't as clear as on the sword, but the flourishes on the engraved 'DR' were very distinctive and left little doubt as to who the pistol's owner had been.

Dean pulled the artifact gently from his hands and placed it back into the crate. "Good enough for me. Let's get this out of here."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Gary's soft gasp of fear was their only warning and Dean immediately began to kick himself as his hand shot for the gun in the waist of his pants. He was the one who was supposed to be watching their backs, but when he had seen Sam bowing under the weight of his emotions he had let himself get distracted.

There was a reason their father had worked to train such emotion out of them, and Dean had blown it.

The voice coming from behind them was as calm and controlled as it had been on the side of the road. "If you move that arm any further without my permission I will put a bullet in the back of your partner's head."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Just so you know, the clouds looking like 'ghostly galleons' in the opening of the chapter is straight from the Noyes Poem. Couldn't resist.

So…if you're reading this it means I figured out a way to get it posted, so the remaining updates shouldn't be delayed. Wish me luck.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Well, the computer is still a mess, but if you're reading this my 'work around' is still…working. LOL Yeah, yeah, I know I could have had Quincy wipe his hard drive in Chap 14 without taking a sledgehammer to it, but c'mon. Computer? Sledgehammer? Right now I'm thinking the two are made for each other.

I had fun with this chapter. I hope you like it.

I'm recapping the characters and a couple of plot points again because I'm still afraid things were forgotten over that long break.

1770s Massachusetts: Elizabeth Benjamin (Bess)—tavern/inn owner's daughter. Daniel Reilly—Highwayman and Bess' lover. Catherine—mayor's daughter, artist, writer, Bess' best friend. George Quincy—works at tavern/inn and eventually takes it over and marries Catherine.

2006 Massachusetts: Bob—Ya'll know who Bob is. LOL. Richard Quincy—current owner of Benjamin Inn. Chauncey McDermott and Pete Ricci—Boston goons working for Quincey. Nate Ryan and his brother-in-law Gary Mason—local goons who work for the town and do work for Quincy on the side.

The boys know now that Richard Quincy is involved in numerous criminal activities. For his part, Quincy no longer believes that the brothers are harmless paranormal investigators. He's just not sure which federal agency they work for.

**Warnings**: The usual. They curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 14:

_Gary's soft gasp of fear was their only warning and Dean immediately began to kick himself as his hand shot for the gun in the waist of his pants. He was the one who was supposed to be watching their backs, but when he had seen Sam bowing under the weight of his emotions he had let himself get distracted._

_There was a reason their father had worked to train such emotion out of them, and Dean had blown it._

_The voice coming from behind them was as calm and controlled as it had been on the side of the road. "If you move that arm any further without my permission I will put a bullet in the back of your partner's head."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 15**

"I want to see both of your hands now, boys. Nice and slow."

Dean relaxed the hand that was already on the butt of his gun with a soft sigh and began to slowly move his arms out to his sides. Next to him Sam was doing the same thing, shooting Dean apologetic looks. Figures the kid would consider it his fault that Dean had been distracted. Sammy never did need a harping mom to make him feel guilty about things. He always did a great job of it on his own. Across from them Gary was standing perfectly still, his face frozen in the perfect 'caught with your hand in the cookie jar' expression. Assuming the penalty for stealing the cookies was death.

When their arms were extended Dean wiggled his fingers as if to emphasize their lack of weapons.

"Very good. Now slowly stand up. Eh eh eh…don't turn around yet."

Dean smoothly halted his swivel and turned his back to Chauncey again. He had accomplished his goal, his head turning a bit more quickly than his body so that he was able to get a glimpse of the slimy bastard in back of them. Enough to confirm that yes, indeed, he was holding a gun. Would have been pretty friggin embarrassing if they were being held at bay by a cocked index finger.

"Sam, take a couple of steps to your right. I'd like a little distance between the two of you."

"Mr. McDermott!" A second voice joined Chauncey's, overflowing with good humor as it addressed Chauncey. "Did I misread the calendar? Is it my birthday? I could not have asked for a better present than to have all of my loose ends gathered in the same place. Mr. Mason, please stop looking like you are about to cry. I understand the shock of Nate's death made you easy prey for them. All will be forgiven if you relieve them of their weapons for me."

"Just so we're clear Mason?" Chauncey's voice was a cold warning. "If you miss anything I'll use it to kill you after _I_ take it off of them. I don't forgive and forget as easily as Mr. Quincy."

Gary wouldn't meet their eyes when he stepped forward to search them and Dean knew they'd lost him. They couldn't expect any help from that quarter. He easily found the Beretta tucked into the back of Sam's pants and Sam's ankle holster with a small .22 and knife. He seemed almost surprised that all Dean was carrying was the silver handgun tucked into his waistband. Dean gave a little shrug. "I wasn't dressed for company." He was actually glad he hadn't replaced his ankle rig after Sam took it off while they waited for the ambulance the night before. He was kind of partial to that holster and the modifications he had made to it. Be a damn shame for it to end up on this son of a bitch's ankle.

"Okay, now you can turn around."

The brothers turned towards each other as they moved to face the men behind them. Their eyes locked for just a second, enough to communicate that they were both ready to take any chance they got. Dean was not a huge fan of his brother being exposed to Daniel Reilly, but he'd be pretty happy if the spirit were to put in an appearance right about now.

Damn salt. Of all the times for Reilly to decide to be shy.

Chauncey was just slipping Sam's ankle rig into an inside jacket pocket when they looked at him. Dean searched the cut of his jacket on the other side, trying to figure out where he might have stashed the Berettas. "Charley! If I'd known we were having a party I would have brought chips or something," Dean said with a small smirk as he dropped his hands to his sides. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam do the same. It was a calculated risk, giving them a chance to judge just how confident the two men were in their control over the situation. The cocky move scored bonus points for easing the uncomfortable strain on his shoulder.

"Can it." Chauncey apparently felt no need to be polite. Probably because of the ugly ass gun in his hand. In the movies silencers were small and elegant, in reality the silencer on Chauncey's gun was longer than the gun itself, a fat black sausage extending off of the front of his barrel. Fear of gunshots being heard by tavern customers obviously wouldn't be a deterrent.

The silver haired man next to Chauncey was regarding them with an amused smile. He looked like he would be more at home on the cover of _Forbes_ magazine than standing in the midst of the cluttered barn. "Sam, nice to see you again. And you must be Dean? Richard Quincy. I'd shake your hand, but…" he raised his shoulder in an elegant shrug. Damn. The suede jacket alone had to have set him back at least five hundred bucks. The silver pistol in his hand looked like a carefully chosen accessory.

"Richard, this seems a bit overboard just to stop us from seeing artifacts that could be tied to the haunting," Sam said smoothly.

Richard shook his head as though chastising a child. "That boat has sailed, Mr. Collins. Or whatever your name is." His eyes narrowed. "So who exactly are you with? Treasury? IRS? FBI? Not that it matters really, but I am curious." He looked back and forth between them with his eyebrows raised. "Not talking, hmmm…?" He threw his head back and laughed. "I have this sudden urge to say 'we have ways of making you talk' like the villain in a cheesy movie, but, quite frankly, it really doesn't matter. It would have been nice to get the proceeds from selling Robber's Woods into my accounts before I set sail for sunnier shores, but _que sera, sera_. I should thank you for the heads up. Your clumsy attempts at an investigation were a wonderful incentive for me to accelerate my timetable."

"I'm glad we could help," Dean said with a smile. "Sam and I will just wish you a bon voyage and be on our way." Just keep him talking, look for an opening, wait for Reilly to wake up and notice there was a Quincy within his reach…

Quincy gave him an indulgent smile. "I admit I was a little angry with you when I thought you were interfering with a deal that still had a chance to go through, but I should have known it was doomed from the moment they found the bones."

"I'm kind of surprised you made such a stupid mistake. You set up where they were supposed to clear the land, didn't you? Guess you kind of screwed up forgetting about all those murdered men buried there." Sam's voice was a low snarl and Dean's heart began to thud rapidly in his chest. "I expected more from you, Quincy."

That sure as hell didn't sound like Sam. He didn't know if it was Reilly talking through his brother or just the remnants of Reilly's hatred for the Quincys, but either way Sam was going to get himself killed before Dean could figure out a way to get them out of this. He shot Sam a furious glare and Sam's eyes widened in apology. He looked almost surprised that the words had come out of his mouth.

Richard's grin turned bitter and his eyes glittered as he stalked towards Sam. Dean tensed, ready to throw himself between them when he heard Chauncey's soft word. "Don't." Chauncey's gun was pointed at his chest but Dean continued to eye Richard's approach as the angry man drew closer to his brother. He'd take a chance on Chauncey having bad aim if he had to.

Chauncey must have read his intentions from his stance because Gary's large hands were suddenly on Dean's arms. He hadn't even noticed when Chauncey had signaled for the big man to move.

"Sorry," Gary said softly. His touch was light but Dean knew he'd have a struggle on his hands if he tried to get to Sam. Long enough for it not to matter if Chauncey was the worst shot in the world.

Quincy stopped in front of Sam, in his space, crowding him, and jammed the tip of his gun barrel into the soft skin under Sam's jaw, pushing upwards. Sam's eyes slid to Dean's and Dean could see in them that Sam wouldn't make a move to defend himself. Not when Dean was being held.

Sam's forehead creased in pain as his head was forced back, the gun digging into his flesh. Richard's face was red, a small vein in his forehead pulsing rapidly. Dean's mouth went dry and he wished he could think of a comment…any comment…that would pull their attention away from Sam and back to him. A comment that wouldn't push Richard over the edge he seemed to be teetering upon. His hands clenched into fists when he saw Sam's eyes blinking rapidly, trying to control the moisture filling them from the pain. The desire to kill Richard Quincy was almost overwhelming when a tear broke free and began to meander down the side of Sam's face, ending up near his ear.

"Do you really want to take sides in a battle that has been over for over two hundred years?" Quincy bit out. "My crazy bitch of an ancestor…she said they were buried close to the road! CLOSE to the road! That crazy bitch!" The spittle flying from Quincy's mouth was at odds with the cold control in his voice. "I made sure the crews were over a quarter mile from the road before they started to work! She's probably laughing in hell that her mistake managed to screw up my plans!"

Quincy took a shaky breath and the gun lowered a fraction. Sam's throat worked as the pressure lessened and he was able to swallow. "She was a vindictive bitch. She hated her husband…she sided with a gang of thieves and murderers instead of with the man who worked to make sure the family had money and power."

Richard fell silent for a couple of seconds, his eyes examining Sam's face. His gaze moved to the open crate and the remains within it and then shifted back to Sam, his features slackening in surprise. The dusky color began to fade from Quincy's cheeks and he paled to a sickly white. It was cliché, but true. His eyes fixed on Sam, Quincy looked like he was seeing a ghost. His face twisted into a snarl, but it seemed equal parts fear and anger this time. He jabbed the gun upwards again and Sam gave a low groan. Richard leaned close and spoke in a hissing whisper. "She sided with a charismatic bastard and his whore instead of with the man she ended up marrying."

He abruptly moved the gun away and Sam's head fell forward, his face twisted in a grimace. Richard took a step backwards and his hand swung in a short backhanded arc, the side of the gun smashing across the right side of Sam's head and his cheek. Sam's head snapped to the side and he fell to his knees with a soft cry.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's lunge was brought up short by a pair of iron hands on his arms. He fought against them until Sam's right hand came up, his palm towards Dean in a calming gesture. Sam's head was bowed, his left hand cradling the injured side of his face.

Quincy was breathing as though he had just run a race and his face was still pale. He moved to the set of shelves in back of the crate and grabbed one of the unused lanterns off of the shelf. He unscrewed the cap on the side of the fuel reservoir and held it over the open crate, pouring the fuel over the remains. The stench of gasoline reached Dean and he looked at the lantern in surprise, for the first time noticing the "Dual Fuel" stamped on the side of the silver lantern.

"I want all traces of these bastard bones gone," Quincy said softly. "The past should have stayed buried." Dean's blood went cold when he realized that Quincy's eyes were locked on his brother as he poured, his face a mask of hatred.

The hair on the back of Dean's neck prickled as the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. It wasn't dramatic, just enough for Dean to wonder if it was his own anger or if Reilly was starting to stir. Quincy dropped the empty lantern next to the crate and wiped his hand over his face. When his arm fell back to his side he looked more composed, just a small tic jumping near the corner of his eye giving away his fear. His shoulders hunched underneath his heavy suede jacket and Dean was suddenly sure he wasn't the only one who had noticed the change in temperature.

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Sam opened his mouth gingerly, relieved when his jaw worked smoothly. The side of his face pulsed with pain in time with his heartbeat and he felt it with light fingertips, worried that he would feel bones moving under the skin. His fingers slid easily over skin made slick by the blood trailing down from a cut on his temple.

Whispers of anger began to once again drift through the air around him. He was almost surprised that no mist was gathering along the ground at Quincy's feet. It was ironic that Quincy seemed to be doing the hunters' job for them, pouring gasoline over Reilly's remains. A small part of him wanted to begin smirking when he felt the temperature drop slightly. He bit the inside of his lips to keep a chuckle from escaping. Giving in to the emotions Reilly was stirring up in him hadn't worked out too well so far.

Dean's eyes were fixed on Quincy, his face a mask of fury. Richard didn't seem to notice, he hadn't moved his stare off of Sam. Sam returned the look calmly and Richard's face shifted as his shoulders hunched in the chill. Something dark, a primal fear that the suave man seemed unable to face, skittered across his eyes. He scowled and tore his gaze from Sam's.

"It's time I 'arrived' at the inn. Take care of things the way we planned," he said brusquely. He shrugged his shoulders, settling his jacket in a move that was probably meant to look cool and collected but came across as more of a nervous twitch. He made a wide berth around Sam as he walked towards the gap in the last mound of furniture. He paused before stepping through the opening. "Just stick to the plan and I'll call you tomorrow in Boston."

Sam couldn't help feeling a little disappointed when Quincy was gone. Their odds were better against just Chauncey, there was a better chance that Gary would switch sides again if the brothers looked likely to regain the upper hand. But a part of him had been looking forward to the spectacle of Quincy squaring off against the angry spirit of Daniel Reilly. He forced himself to his feet, wincing when the movement caused a quick stab of pain in the side of his head.

"Sammy?" Dean jerked his shoulders and Gary's hands fell away.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam assured him.

Chauncey seemed oblivious to the slight change in temperature, his attention fixed on their exchange. He glanced at his watch and then leaned back against the tarp covered hill in back of him, having no problem with the nonchalant attitude that had eluded Quincy. The gun was steady in his hand, pointed midway between Sam and Dean as he gave them a slow smile. "We've got a couple of minutes to kill so I'm gonna make my life easier and tell ya…whichever one of you gives me a hard time? I'm gonna shoot ya where you stand and then take my time killing the other one."

"Chaunce?" Gary asked hesitantly. The big man's hands were trembling and his eyes were darting around the back of the barn as he slowly edged away from the gasoline soaked crate. Now _he_ had definitely noticed the temperature change. A tremor ran through his whole body when the lantern light flickered. "Maybe we should…talk to these guys. They know things Chaunce. They can, maybe, help us."

"Help us with what, Mason?" Chauncey's tone dripped boredom.

"We pissed something off when we moved those bones. We pissed it off a lot. I think it's going to come after us. I think it killed Nate and Pete tonight." Gary wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shuffled nervously from foot to foot. "I think maybe they can help us," he finished, his voice weak.

Chauncey began to smirk. "This the famous ghost story you been spouting off to the guys down at the township yard?" He snorted out a quick laugh at Gary's shocked expression. "You think we didn't hear about that? Your buddies down at the yard are worried about you. They think you're losing it—a little too much booze, a little too much imagination. So they went to your brother-in-law and told Nate all about your crazy theories."

Gary held his hands up, palms towards Chauncey, and began to shake his head frantically. "I never told nobody about the clearing or the bones, I swear to God, Chaunce! I only told the guys at the yard that I thought maybe a ghost caused the accidents. I wouldn't say nothing about Mr. Quincy or anything else."

Chauncey's smirk hardened into something cold and frightening. "Oh, we know you didn't say anything about us. That's why you're still using up air." He switched his gaze to Sam and Dean and began to shake his head. "You two knew a sap when you saw one, didn't you. You sure sold him a bill of goods." He took a deep breath and sighed. "Mason, try to get this through that pea sized brain of yours. A couple of tourists got freaked out by a deer in the road. That's it. Nate and Pete? They probably had too much to drink before they left here, and Nate couldn't drive worth a shit when he was sober. End of story."

Gary looked like he wanted to say more, but he just began gnawing on his bottom lip and nodded his head.

"Okay, let's start moving." Chauncey walked sideways, keeping the gun steady on them, and stopped next to a line of red plastic gasoline cans near the ATV. His eyes remained fixed on the brothers as he leaned to his left and hefted the one can already fitted with a spout. He tilted the can slightly, pouring a small amount of gasoline onto the ground. "Grab one of these gas cans, Mason, and take it up to the office," he said, nodding at the remaining cans. He waited until Gary was in front of them with a second can before gesturing with the gun for Sam and Dean to follow.

Chauncey walked behind them as they moved toward the front of the barn, the can in his hand tilted and leaving a solid trail of gasoline up the side of the barn. The soft sound of the liquid spattering on the wooden floor, the gasoline fumes suddenly swirling in the chilled air, added weight to the ball of lead in Sam's stomach. He wracked his brain, trying to remember everything he'd passed in the barn. There had to be something that he or Dean could grab to use as a weapon. As they neared the front of the barn Sam eyed the catering supplies longingly. The solid candlestick could be used as a club, the heavy glass highball tumbler could be a weapon….IF one of them could get their hands on something without McDermott noticing…

The first lantern lit by Gary near the front of the barn was still glowing brightly, its harsh white light killing any hope that either brother could make a move without Chauncey seeing it.

"Stop there," Chauncey ordered when they drew even with the mound closest to the office door. He threw the empty gas can away from himself after the last of its contents dribbled onto the floor and Sam's knees went weak. The skin between his shoulder blades began to crawl, waiting for the impact, the burn of a bullet. He took a deep breath and tensed his muscles. His brother was slightly in front of him, so he was already between Dean and the gun. If he could push Dean to the side, maybe he could give Dean a chance.

Sam began to breathe again when Chauncey skirted around them, keeping them covered as he moved to join Gary near the office door. "Here." He pulled a small key ring out of his pocket and tossed it to Gary. "Quincy probably locked it behind him when he left."

Gary held the gas can in his left hand and caught the keys with his right, immediately pushing one of them into the deadbolt. He left the keys dangling from the lock as he pulled the door open. He was ready to step into the office when Chauncey's voice stopped him. "Hold up a sec, we've got a couple of things to take care of first. Unscrew that cap."

Sam's stomach clenched and he took a step forward so that he was standing side by side with his brother. Dean scowled, obviously not happy to lose the chance to shield his little brother.

Gary backed away from the office door until his back was against the tarp covered stack as he took the lid off of the gas can. He turned a sad gaze towards Sam and Dean and Sam fought not to close his eyes, not to look away from the obscene silencer pointing at them. Next to him, Dean went completely still. They were caught in the exposed spot between the front edge of the mound and the shelves on the side wall, potential cover just a couple of feet too far away to help them.

In a move that was too quick to catch the gun shifted and spat once. The bullet hit true, tearing through Gary's neck and throwing him back against the tarp covered mound, the gas can flying out of his hands. His eyes went wide in shock as his fingers clawed desperately at the gory wound. He slowly slid to the ground, leaving a stripe of thick blood on the tarp in back of him. Chauncey watched with bored eyes as blood began to dribble from the man's lips, a mere trickle compared to the torrent flowing from his ruined neck and soaking his chest and shoulders. Gary's movements lessened and finally stopped, his hands, coated with red, falling into his lap and laying still. "He really was an idiot," Chauncey said matter-of-factly.

Sam's hands were shaking and he knew his own expression probably matched Dean's, equal parts revulsion and surprise. The gun had immediately shifted back to them after the shot was fired and it somehow looked even more ominous now that there were no doubts that the man holding it was a stone cold killer.

Chauncey turned slightly to the side, never taking his eyes off of them. Gary's gas can had amazingly landed upright, and Chauncey kicked his foot out, knocking it over. "Oops." The liquid spread and rivulets began to meander in different directions. Some ran into the office, soaking into the stack of papers near the file cabinet while other ribbons of fuel began to move across the barn's wooden floor and soak into Gary's pants leg. Chauncey motioned with the gun for them to back up, past the end of the tarp covered mound and into the area between the first aisle and the shelves. He kept in step with them, moving himself away from the office doorway and the choking gasoline fumes caught in the more enclosed spot. The gasoline trail that Chauncey had created smelled, but it didn't have the eye burning intensity of the spreading lake by the door.

"You follow through with this and you're going to be sitting in jail for killing two federal agents so quick you won't even know what hit you," Dean's voice was rough but strong.

"Me? I'm in Boston. There are people who will swear Quincy left me there when he came back here. And Quincy is in front of an inn full of witnesses who will swear he was nowhere near the barn when his deranged employee killed two agents and was fatally wounded himself. Poor Gary. His increasingly strange behavior has been noticed by a lot of people. His heavy drinking. His obsession with the artifacts that he and his brother-in-law stole and hid in Mr. Quincy's barn. Nate's death must have pushed him over the edge. He came here, maybe to drink, maybe to vent his rage, and when he discovered two federal agents searching the office there was a confrontation. Such a tragedy, all three killed and a lamp knocked over in the melee. Mr. Quincy has made numerous complaints to local electricians and the electric company about the fire danger with the lamps in the midst of all of this." Chauncey circled his hand in the air, indicating the highly flammable contents of the barn.

"You'll never get away with it. They can analyze burn patterns, they'll know arson when they see it. They'll check ballistics…that story will never hold up." Sam searched Chauncey's face, looking for some sign that they could reason with him, some sign that he could be distracted. Anything to give them a chance. All he saw on the man's face was boredom. Sam pointed at Gary's body. "This is just state. There's no death penalty in Massachusetts. But you kill us? You're looking at a federal death penalty."

"Sam's right. You're already being investigated. They're going to tear this story apart. Don't add killing two feds to the list," Dean added. He took a small step away from Sam. It was a subtle move but Sam recognized it for what it was. Dean was trying to pull McDermott's attention away from Sam.

Chauncey began to grin. "You two still don't get it, do you? The story doesn't have to hold up forever. Just a couple of days. They're going to be so busy blaming Gary for everything that it'll take at least that long for them to decide to come after us. That's all the time we need to finish transferring accounts. Quincy's been getting ready for this ever since I informed him that Sonny Giambello runs little informal audits on guys he has handling money for him, and Quincy's turn is coming up. You think Quincy's worried about you guys? When Sonny's boys come after him for the money that disappeared they'll make him watch while they cut off his body parts. Quincy laundered Sonny's money a little _too_ good. He laundered it right into his own pockets."

"So why bother with the land deal if you knew you wouldn't have time to see it through?" Dean was doing it again, edging a little farther away from Sam while he used his voice to keep Chauncey's attention. The gap was widening, the gun's aim straying farther from Sam.

"I told him it was a mistake." Chauncey shrugged. "I don't know. Quincy's got some kind of obsession with that bit of land. You heard him back there a little while ago. Something tied up in family history. I don't really give a crap. As long as the money keeps moving into the islands so I can disappear."

Sam could feel it, Dean was tensing. Like a spring coiling up, getting ready to fly forward. The son of a bitch. He wasn't setting things up so Sam could go for Chauncey, he was pulling the gun away from Sam and then HE was going to lunge for Chauncey, provide the distraction so Sam could finish it. His god damn brother and his god damn belief in his own invulnerability…

Chauncey was not some two bit hood. He realized what Dean was doing only a second after Sam. Sam could see it in his eyes, in the way his mouth suddenly flattened into a thin line and the tip of the silencer tilted slightly so that it was aimed directly at the center of Dean's chest.

In slow motion the man's finger began to tighten on the trigger and Sam acted without thought. His arms shot out and he shoved against Dean's left side. Dean was already off balance, ready to lunge at Chauncey, and the shove sent him flying into the aisle between the first and second mound just a split second before the gun went off with a soft _thunk_.

The gun was shifting towards Sam before the first bullet even clanked against something metallic in the back of the barn, but Sam was already dropping to the ground. He landed on his left side and his left leg shot out, his foot hooking around the back of Chauncey's left foot. His right leg was already in motion, drawing up towards his hip and then slamming out in a kick, his foot parallel to the ground. It wasn't the precise maneuver he'd practiced at a Palo Alto karate club, he caught Chauncey in the hip instead of the knee or stomach. But combined with his left foot being pulled out from under him, it was enough to send the man falling backwards, the next shot going harmlessly towards the barn roof.

Sam rolled onto his stomach and gathered his legs under him, starting to swivel towards the falling man. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dean pulling himself to his feet in the aisle between the two mounds. If Chauncey had landed flat on his back, between the two of them they could have ended it there.

Luck—and the haphazard mess of the barn—was definitely not on their side. The pile of boxes supporting the lantern broke Chauncey's fall too quickly. The impact sent the lantern crashing to the ground and the light snuffed out, leaving the front end of the barn in deep shadow. Chauncey held tight to the gun and started to regain his balance almost immediately, snarling curses.

Sam spun towards the back of the barn and lunged forward, diving between a pile of wedding props and a shelving unit. Dean couldn't see Chauncey's quick recovery from his position, but he would know what Sam's sudden change in direction meant. Hopefully he was already running to escape from the aisle before Chauncey had a clear shot at him. Sam's right shoulder collided solidly with the shelves against the wall. The heavy unit barely trembled under the impact, but a distinct clink came from a cardboard carton on the bottom shelf.

He was sandwiched between the shelves and an eclectic selection of party props. He caught a glimpse of Chauncey through a small space between a hefty wooden podium and the parts of a decorative arch. Chauncey had grabbed a flashlight from somewhere and was stepping into position at the end of the aisle where Dean had been. There was no way to tell if Dean was still in the aisle.

Sam plunged his hand into the cardboard carton near his knee and yanked out a heavy glass ashtray. He twisted and sent the ashtray flying over his shoulder to collide with a metal chafing dish closer to the front of the barn. Chauncey spun in that direction, the gun held ready, and Sam scrambled towards the back of the barn, weaving silently around two more piles of props. He was sure now that Dean would have had the time to get out of the aisle.

He stopped, crouching in the narrow gap between a grouping of tall white columns and another of the shelving units. The sweat on his skin went cold when two of the tall candlesticks crowded onto the shelf knocked together with a small _clink_. He held his breath, trying to make himself as small as possible in the space. His eyes strayed across the open space that stretched between the group of columns and the maze of tarp covered mounds and he licked his dry lips in indecision. He was lined up with the aisle between the third and fourth mounds, but Chauncey probably had a clear line of sight to the back of the barn, effectively cutting Sam off from that possible haven. The light near the office might have been extinguished, but the lamp on the opposite side of the barn and the one in the back would show Sam in sharp silhouette if he stepped out of his cover. He'd be an easy target in the shooting gallery.

But it was only a matter of time until Chauncey began walking up the side of the barn and checking around all of the props, flushing Sam out. He reached a hand out and wrapped his fingers around one of the sturdy candlesticks, praying they were as solid as they looked. The metal was cool under his skin and its weight was reassuring when he lifted it from the shelf. He shifted it in his grasp until he had both hands on it, holding it like a baseball bat. His eyes squeezed shut and he concentrated on the slightest whispers of sound around him, ignoring the way drifting gasoline fumes scratched at the back of his throat.

Chauncey might be good with the gun, but he and Dean probably had a hell of a lot more experience when it came to playing this kind of cat and mouse game. Moving silently, being both hunted and hunter. Any noises he heard…he could be pretty sure they were Chauncey. Dean could move like a ghost when he had to. Sam wouldn't hear him unless Dean wanted to be heard.

A soft crunch gave away Chauncey's position near the front of the barn, either stepping on glass from the broken ashtray or the lamp globe. A bead of sweat joined the slow trickle of blood working its way down the side of Sam's face in spite of the barn's cool temperature. A piece of glass must have embedded itself temporarily in the bottom of Chauncey's shoe. The soft scrape of it across the wooden floor lasted just long enough for Sam to know that the man was starting to move in his direction, creeping along the edges of the mounds, before the glass either fell loose or was pulled free.

Sam's heart sped up and tension pulled the muscles across the top of his shoulders into tight bands as he strained to hear the man's movements. If there were no other props to block its fall…if he could figure out when Chauncey was in the right spot…if he could get the leverage right…he might be able to push one of the columns next to him down onto the man. A lot of 'ifs', but better than nothing. He slowly, carefully, shifted his position so that he could lean his shoulder against the smoothly curved surface of the column next to him.

There was a slight whisper, material…Chauncey's sleeve?...brushing against a poly tarp… He was still too far away, but coming closer. Sam released his two-handed grip on the candlestick just long enough to wipe his sweaty palm against his pants. The column against his shoulder felt hard and heavy, and he held his breath, ready to shove his weight against it.

He gave a slight start, his concentration broken when the light on the opposite side of the barn suddenly blinked out. That answered the question of where Dean was. The aisle in Sam's line of sight was now pitch black except for a luminous strip at the halfway point where the break in the fourth mound admitted light from the remaining lantern in the back of the barn.

Chauncey gave a soft chuckle and Sam expected to hear him immediately heading towards the extinguished light. Silence hung heavy for a couple of seconds and Sam fought the urge to peek out from around the column. He would still be backlit by the last lamp. His forehead creased in confusion at the sound of a soft click and his eyes widened suddenly when he realized what it was. Chauncey had relocked the deadbolt on the door into the office, making sure neither brother could circle in back of him and get away.

Which meant his view of Sam's position was blocked…and he would probably go down the other side of the barn after Dean. Sam rose to his feet and tightened his grip on the candlestick. If he could make it to the end of the aisle across from him quickly enough he might be able to ambush the cocky killer.

He stepped silently out from behind the column and immediately realized his mistake. McDermott wasn't easily lured from one prey to another. It was the slightest of sounds, the soft scrape of a foot across the gritty floor, and Sam's step turned into a dive. There were two quick _thunks_ from the silenced gun and a line of fire burned across the back of Sam's shoulder. Sam landed on his braced arms and immediately scrambled forward as he heard heavy footsteps running toward the end of his aisle.

Sam dodged to the left, into the break partway down the third mound, and pulled up short. He plastered his back against the end of the mound and fought to slow his racing heart. Hard ridges dug into his back, his best guess that the tarp was covering a tall stack of banquet tables. The back of his right shoulder was on fire and he cautiously moved his arm, grimacing at the fierce burn along the furrow made by one of the bullets. It hurt like hell but must have just skimmed the surface.

The footsteps stopped at the end of the third mound, Chauncey obviously taking his time coming around the corner in case Sam was waiting right there. Sam pushed his head back against the tarp behind him, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to anticipate which aisle the man would decide to come down, to his right or his left. He shifted the candlestick, preparing to swing either way. His skin crawled as though the soft light bathing him was a physical thing. The breaks in the third and fourth mounds were only slightly offset and the stripe of light from the final lamp felt like a spotlight, pointing the way to his position.

There. To his right. Chauncey was slowly moving up the aisle between the third and fourth mound. Sam edged to his left, trying to keep the bulk of the stacked tables between them without giving his position away. The only reason Chauncey didn't have the gun in his face already was because the man didn't know if Sam had dodged right or left out of the aisle.

The stealthy movements came closer to the break and Sam sidled a little farther around the mound, lifting the candlestick, wishing he had time to wipe his palms again as it slid slightly in his sweaty grasp. The candlestick began to bob in his hand as his breath deepened and he began to tense, getting ready to swing. Not yet…not yet…

Metal clanked against metal in the back of the barn and Sam's tension released with a silent whoosh when Chauncey turned to the right and bolted through the break in the last mound. Into the back of the barn where Dean obviously was, and where everything would be illuminated by the last lamp. The tension ramped right back up and Sam moved swiftly through the gap in the third mound. He could see the edge of Chauncey's back beyond the last mound. The armed man seemed to be crouched slightly, as though he was holding the gun in front of him, aiming at something.

Sam jumped forward, swinging the candlestick. It wouldn't be a clean blow, but it should be enough to throw Chauncey's aim off. The edge of Chauncey's back moved to the side before Sam connected and the hunter's stomach dropped when he realized Chauncey had heard him coming. His momentum carried him forward and he found himself framed in the final opening as Chauncey's gun completed a smooth arc to point at him.

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**A/N** Yeah, I know. Sorry about another cliffhanger. It was just the best way to break the chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Well, the computer is still a mess. It's become my theme song. Once again, I had fun with this chapter. I hope you like it.

**Warnings**: If you've read this far in the story then I shouldn't have to repeat this. But I will. LOL They curse. They all curse. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 15:

_The stealthy movements came closer to the break and Sam sidled a little farther around the mound, lifting the candlestick, wishing he had time to wipe his palms again as it slid slightly in his sweaty grasp. The candlestick began to bob in his hand as his breath deepened and he tensed, getting ready to swing. Not yet…not yet…_

_Metal clanked against metal in the back of the barn and Sam's tension released with a silent whoosh when Chauncey turned to the right and bolted through the break in the last mound. Into the back of the barn where Dean obviously was, and where everything would be illuminated by the last lamp. The tension ramped right back up and Sam moved swiftly through the gap in the third mound. He could see the edge of Chauncey's back beyond the last mound. The armed man seemed to be crouched slightly, as though he was holding the gun in front of him, aiming at something._

_Sam jumped forward, swinging the candlestick. It wouldn't be a clean blow, but it should be enough to throw Chauncey's aim off. The edge of Chauncey's back moved to the side before Sam connected and the hunter's stomach dropped when he realized Chauncey had heard him coming. His momentum carried him forward and he found himself framed in the final opening as Chauncey's gun completed a smooth arc to point at him._

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**The Highwayman Chapter 16**

Dean moved rapidly away from the lamp after extinguishing it. The move should draw Chauncey towards him. He wasn't ready to confront the armed goon yet, but he had to do something to pry the guy away from Sam. The bastard was out and out _stalking_ his brother, and that just kind of pissed…him…off. The cocky soft chuckle he heard after the lamp went black was just another nail in the man's coffin.

His footsteps were silent as he skirted around the stacked supplies and equipment in the back of the barn. A quick pause at the shelves near the pile of wooden crates netted him a small hand trowel with an interestingly pointy tip. He glanced into the gasoline soaked excelsior as he sped by and quirked an eyebrow at Reilly's remains. "A little help maybe?" Other than the drop in temperature before Quincy left, Reilly still seemed to be on a coffee break. Maybe he was off greeting Gary, the newest member of the undearly departed.

Dean glanced over his shoulder as he moved quickly to the long handled tools hanging on the wall. God, he felt like he was center stage in the back of the barn. The damn lamp made klieg lights look dim. The temptation to snuff the last light was strong, but trying to hunt Chauncey down in a pitch black maze probably wouldn't be a good idea. Especially when this particular pitch black maze was home field to the armed man.

His hands itched to grab the pitchfork, every gory slasher movie made them seem like the perfect weapon. Reality was…they sucked. Good for jabbing, but when you tried to beat the bad guy over the head with one they kind of laughed at you. Dean tilted his head to the side for a second when a soft click sounded from the front of the barn. The sound had been clear in the hush that lay heavy over the large space and it tugged at his mind. He should know what it was…a lock clicking into place. The bastard had locked them in. Dean snatched a shovel from the row of tools displayed on the wall. His shoulder was unfortunate proof of how effective a weapon they made.

He was out of time. Chauncey should be coming down the far side of the barn looking for him any second. Dean moved swiftly toward the tavern side. He would find his brother so they could work out a plan to trip McDermott up. The man didn't stand a chance once he and Sam were working together.

Dean pulled up short and his breath hitched in his throat at the muted sound of two silenced shots. Another couple of steps and he would have been in the line of fire. Chauncey hadn't taken Dean's bait. There was the distinct thump of a body hitting the floor on the other side of the last mound and Dean almost called his brother's name out in a panic. A sound—slight scrapes—Sam was picking himself up and moving. Dean's terror melted into rage. It was a change he relished.

The bastard was _shooting_ at his brother? Oh, he was _so_ going down.

Dean was disappointed when Sam didn't come through the break into the back of the barn, but with Chauncey right on his tail it was probably safer for Sam in the mini-maze of solid mounds. Right on cue, the flurry of footsteps coming down the side of the barn stopped at the end of the aisle where Sam had fallen. If they came just a few feet farther into the back of the barn Dean would be in plain sight.

Dean didn't have time to get into a better position. Chauncey had moved into the aisle, his soft, sliding footsteps getting closer to Sam. Dean needed to distract Chauncey. Now.

He stepped quickly behind the large utility ATV and balanced the small trowel in his hand. It was solid…heavy… Should fly nicely. He held the tip like it was a throwing knife and his arm flashed forward, sending it towards the old metal wheelbarrow that Sam and Gary had dropped one of the heavy wooden crates onto. It made a satisfyingly loud noise when it hit.

Dean ducked down as Chauncey came barreling through the break. Damn that gun was ugly. The goon held it confidently, in a slight crouch, looking down the barrel as his eyes ran over the back of the barn. He just needed the bastard to come a little closer…

He bit back a curse when Chauncey dodged to the side and began to swivel towards the break. Fear burst in his chest when his brother was suddenly right there and the gun was moving to take aim. Dean had been on his feet as soon as Chauncey had flung himself sideways, but this was all happening too quickly. Dammit Sammy!

A blast of cold air stole Dean's breath away at the same time the set of shelves next to the far end of the mound tilted over. It wasn't a gentle tumble, it was like a giant hand had slammed into it, giving it a violent shove. It fell against the mound with a loud crash, the terracotta planters that filled half of the shelves hitting the ground and shattering into a million sharp shards. The unit hit the end of the mound with enough force to shift the items that were on the top of the stack, and out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam duck instinctively as the top of the mound slid in his direction, forming an archway over the opening.

The gun in Chauncey's hand bobbled for a moment as the armed man flinched in surprise, and the extra second was all the time Dean needed to close the gap. He brought the shovel around, his swing parallel to the ground, and the flat of it caught Chauncey's shoulder, knocking the gun from his hand and sending him sideways into the mound.

Pain shot through Dean's left shoulder, forcefully reminding him that he wasn't even supposed to be using his left arm. He threw the shovel to the ground, barely halting his forward charge. Chauncey was just starting to push himself away from the stacked furniture, a long string of curses erupting from his mouth, when Dean slammed into him, knocking him back into the mound. His right fist hit the man's jaw with a satisfying crunch, snapping Chauncey's head to the side.

Another sharp twinge let him know that holding the goon up so he could pummel him some more probably wasn't a good idea, so Dean contented himself with slamming his knee viciously upwards as Chauncey began to collapse to the ground. The hit lifted the man's body and his back slammed into the mound. Blood gushed from Chauncey's nose and his eyes were at half mast as he slid down to land propped up with his back against the tarp. It was eerily similar to Gary's final pose near the office.

Dean stood over the dazed man, his hands fisted at his sides. "Sam?"

"Yeah, I got it," Sam answered as he moved forward to scoop up the silenced gun. He had barely lifted it from the ground before he released it with a startled hiss of pain, shaking his hand as though it had been burned. The gun's ugly black surface had turned a glistening gray, covered with a thin sheen of frost. Sam's eyes sought out Dean's and he didn't have to say a word. Sam's breath hovered in front of his face in a small cloud of misty ice crystals. Dean's eyes were drawn past his brother, to the larger cloud solidifying near the wooden crate. A shudder worked its way down Dean's spine when a second surge of cold air washed over him, making the temperature that had accompanied the falling shelf feel like the tropics.

"Dean!" Sam was looking past Dean, towards the man on the ground. Dean spun around, cursing. They might have gotten the silenced gun away from Chauncey, but there was a flash of silver as the man started to pull his hand out from the inside of his jacket. One of their own confiscated guns was in his grasp, adding insult to injury.

The gun had just cleared the edge of the jacket when the items in the barn seemed to take on a life of their own. Shards of broken pottery flew towards the armed man and he let out a quick cry of pain and dropped the gun when a razor sharp piece sliced across the back of his hand. His heavy jacket and raised arm deflected smaller pieces from his face as he scrambled to his feet. In the front of the barn another set of shelves crashed to the ground, the clatter of tumbling metal chafing dishes ringing through the space. The crowbar that Gary had used on the wooden crate became airborne, embedding itself in the mound next to Chauncey's head.

Sam looked frozen in place, standing slightly hunched over his stinging hand as the large tools still hanging on the back wall began to shake, tapping against each other at a steadily increasing rate. The pitchfork caught Dean's eye and he launched himself through the air, tackling his brother to the ground and covering Sam's body with his own.

The lantern light flickered and Chauncey began to back away from them, his eyes growing wider as the figure in the mist became clearer. His hand, his entire arm, was shaking as he tried to pull the second Beretta from his inside pocket. His eyes darted between the two brothers and the form taking shape in the mist. "What the hell is that? No no nononono…" His head shook in denial in time to the string of words and he pulled the gun free. He held his arm out straight in front of him, swinging the gun back and forth between the brothers and the now visible highwayman.

The tools flew off of the wall, an axe barely missing Chauncey's head. Dean scowled. How had he missed that when he was looking for a weapon? Chauncey stumbled backwards, heading towards the tavern side of the barn and the path to the office door. A small rake smacked into his side and Dean felt a small twinge of disappointment that it wasn't the pitchfork. He kind of liked those slasher movies.

The roar of breaking glass announced another downed shelf and Chauncey turned his back on them, sprinting towards the side aisle. He made it as far as the end of the mound when the last lit lamp sailed past him, smashing into the shelves and falling to the ground. The glass chimney shattered but the flame wasn't snuffed this time, and an orange glow flickered to life where Chauncey had begun his trail of gasoline earlier.

Chauncey held his arm up in front of his face, backing away from his blocked escape route as the flames reached the tulle hanging from the columns and began to climb upwards. He turned towards the brothers, the whites around his eyes visible in the firelight as his face twisted in panic. The gun swung towards them, shaking wildly. "WHAT DID YOU DO?! MAKE IT STOP!!"

"Guess Gary wasn't such an idiot after all," Dean said just loud enough for the terrified man to hear, and then cursed himself when the words seemed to trigger just enough anger to momentarily overpower the man's panic. The gun steadied and Dean found himself looking across the back of the barn and into the muzzle. The bullet would move a hell of a lot more quickly than he or Sam could dodge it.

Sam's muscles tensed under him and Dean's own breath caught when he noticed what had caught his brother's attention. It wasn't just an optical illusion caused by the dancing shadows. The shelves in back of Chauncey were starting to move. They leaned forward and seemed to almost hover over the oblivious man for a second before slamming downwards more violently than any of the others had done so far. The Boston man did not even have time to cry out, his eyes just starting to widen in surprise before he disappeared under the heavy metal and wood of the shelves and the engine parts and tools that covered them.

"That's gotta hurt," Sam said softly, surprising a snort of laughter from his brother.

The sudden bloody violence did nothing to calm Reilly. The heavy wooden crate on top of the wheelbarrow was lifted up end over end and smashed to the ground, sending the brothers rolling away from the flying splinters of wood and pushing themselves to their feet. Dean paused to snatch up the first Beretta that Chauncey had dropped, shoving it into his pocket.

"Sam? Can't you call him off?" Dean asked breathlessly as they both dove back to the ground when the small tools on the shelf near the crates began to fly through the air like missiles. It was tough to see the flying hazards with the last lamp gone. The light from the growing fire leapt and flickered, filling the back of the barn with crazily moving shadows.

"He's not a trained dog," Sam bit out.

"Oh Crap!" Dean grabbed the collar of Sam's jacket and scurried forward on his knees, heading towards the protection of the tarp covered mounds as a second wooden crate became airborne. This one traveled several feet before crashing to the ground in an explosion of splinters. Reilly's strength and control seemed to be rapidly increasing.

They skidded to a stop inside the aisle and threw their backs against the stacked tables of the last mound, breathing rapidly. Dean fought to hold back a cough from the light haze of smoke that was floating towards them. The fire was starting to work its way up the trail of gasoline on the tavern side of the barn, moving more slowly where the liquid had soaked into the wood but flaring to life where small puddles sat on the surface. The end of the aisle where they had sought refuge was already blocked by a low wall of fire.

A cold wind whipped through the barn and the fire gained several more feet in one jump, settling back down slightly when the breeze subsided. "Sam, we've got to torch those bones." Dean pulled a small lighter from his pocket as he spoke.

"There's no way to stop the fire from spreading from the crate if we do that!" Sam said, shaking his head. He nodded his head towards the end of the aisle. "Don't you think we've got enough trouble with one fire?"

Dean searched his brother's face, but he just couldn't tell. He didn't know if Sam's reluctance was truly because of the increased fire threat, or if he just didn't want to finish Reilly. Another burst of cold wind decided Dean when the fire leapt upwards against the shelves. The plastic around the bundled tablecloths began to sizzle and melt, and flames began to feed on the stacked linens. "Reilly's doing that Sam! He's going to push the fire through the whole barn quicker than we could do it even if we set ten more fires! He doesn't care if he takes us out!" He pushed himself into a crouch and ran away from the flames, towards the opposite end of the aisle. He didn't appreciate just how great his fear was that Sam was under Reilly's control until he felt a wash of relief when he realized that his brother was right on his heels.

The first set of shelves to come down was wedged at an angle against the mound and Dean crouched down further, squeezing through the triangular space between the shelves and the ground. Shards of pottery crunched under his feet and he was forced into an awkward duckwalk as he worked his way through the space, keeping his hands and knees away from their sharp edges. He shook his head in disgust, muttering when Sam's extra long legs allowed him to climb over the angled shelves. "Freak of nature."

Dean edged towards the open crate, the lighter held in front of him. His hand was freezing and he began to worry that his fingers would stiffen after just a few seconds of exposure to the intense cold.

It wasn't the frigid temperature that stopped him, though. It was the sight of Reilly standing in the middle of the space that looked like a tornado had ripped through it. The figure turned towards them, aware of their presence, and Dean stopped dead. His mouth instantly went dry as pain tore through his chest.

For just a second he wasn't looking at the spirit of a long dead highwayman, he was looking at the spirit of his brother. The resemblance was even more marked than the portrait had led them to believe. It was just too easy to imagine that this was some future point in time when Dean had failed in his mission to keep his brother safe. That this was Sam's spirit. All he had left of his little brother. He didn't think he could torch Sam's remains and send that spirit away. He'd be more likely to want to join it.

Reilly's…Sam's…Reilly's…face was a mask of anguish. Bone deep pain and anger warred for prominence and Sam grunted next to him. Dean might be seeing those strong emotions, but he was willing to bet that his brother was _feeling_ them.

The entire barn seemed to tremble around them, a pressure building that made Dean want to pop his ears. The fire on the other side of the barn banked down slightly, its growth momentarily slowed. In the corner closest to them one of the huge barbecue grills began to shake and lifted a couple of inches above the ground. Why the hell not, it was one of the few things that hadn't been thrown around yet. It lifted higher and Sam's voice was a soft whisper that set Dean's heart pounding.

"Shit, Dean. Propane."

It wasn't like they could run up and read the gauge to see if there was any fuel in the tank. They had to assume it was full. If Reilly tossed the grill and the valve broke, escaping propane could turn into a fireball. Suddenly protecting his brother in the here and now looked a hell of a lot more important than some scary vision of a future loss. Dean took the last step and flicked the lighter as he grabbed a handful of excelsior. He lit the end of it and then dropped it into the crate, jumping back when flames shot upwards.

There were no unearthly screams, no last ditch efforts to take the brothers with him. Daniel Reilly merely bowed his head and faded away. Dean wasn't a romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but he hoped the spirit's calm end meant that he was finding some peace with his Bess. The barbeque grill dropped back to the ground with no sudden hiss of escaping gas and Dean kept his fingers crossed that they didn't have to add propane to their list of problems. The list was long enough already.

The fire in the crate wasn't confining itself to the bed of shredded wood. Already one of the wooden sides was sheathed in orange and the surfaces of the other sealed gazebo crates closest to the new fire were starting to blacken and smoke as they came closer to igniting. The barn's high roof would buy them a little time before the smoke buildup became deadly, but things could go downhill quickly when the fire really took hold. Dean darted to the shelves closest to the crates and grabbed the small collection of pesticides, throwing them away from the growing fire. Breathing in instantly poisonous gas wasn't high on his 'to do' list.

He wasn't sure what was up with Sam, who was doing a spot on impersonation of a mannequin, but he sure as hell didn't have time to figure it out. He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him towards the large barn doors. "Dude, we've got to get out of here."

Sam shook his head as though he was trying to remove the last traces of fog from his mind. Dean picked up the flat head axe that had been tossed around earlier and watched expectantly while Sam lifted the latch on the doors and threw his weight against them. Gary had warned them that the doors were secured by a chain and padlock on the outside, but if there was enough slack in the chain they might be able to reach it through a gap between the doors. There was about an inch of give before the doors held tight.

"C'mon, Sam, put some ass in it!" Dean growled, waving the axe at the door.

Sam threw his weight against the doors again, so hard that he practically bounced off, but they refused to budge any farther. There was not enough space between the doors to even see the chain, much less reach it with a tool.

"Ain't happening, dude," Sam said, his face twisted in a grimace as he rubbed his shoulder.

Dean looked at the progress of the fire traveling along the gasoline trail on the tavern side of the barn and made a quick decision. "The office door." He turned and trotted towards the break in the mound, but pulled up short at his brother's voice.

"Dean we can't just leave him."

He turned towards Sam, his face twisted in disbelief. He knew his brother had a soft heart, but c'mon…the guy had been ready to ventilate them and then use them for kindling.

Sam was looking at him with his eyes wide and pleading, but his jaw set in a stubborn line. He wanted his big brother's help, but he was prepared to do it on his own if he had to. "We can't just leave him to burn if he's still alive." It was in his voice too, that note of pleading backed up with a steel resolve.

Damn, the kid was good. Dean snapped his mouth shut. Arguing was just a waste of time. He shook his head, his face twisted into a scowl while he changed course and headed for the downed shelves and pancake man.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Sam knew his brother was probably right. This was a dangerous waste of time. But he clung to the belief that _he_ was right too. If they didn't at least try, then they were no better than the creatures they hunted, the creatures who received a Winchester death sentence because of their disregard for human life.

The heat from the fire was more intense on the tavern side of the barn, but so far no flames had made it across the gap between Chauncey's position under the shelf and the start of the gasoline trail. The man was completely covered by the shelves and their contents and Dean eyed the gap between the heavy unit and the wooden floor doubtfully. Sam tried to reach through the space between the shelves, but items had slid off of the shelves as they tipped over, and too many things were wedged between Chauncey's body and the unit's metal frame. The fire was burning brightly enough to light up the space around them, but the space between the shelves was a mass of flickering shadows. They could barely make out patches of Chauncey's jacket through the mess, not nearly enough to tell if was alive.

Sam crouched down and grabbed the bottom edge of the top shelf, preparing to lift upwards. He didn't want Dean to touch it. He could see the way Dean was holding his left arm close to his side, as though his shoulder was causing him a lot of pain. A wrong move could lock it into a debilitating spasm again. The bullet crease along the back of Sam's shoulder was no picnic, but he didn't think he could cause any more damage by using his muscles. It would just hurt like hell.

Dean's eyes cast around the floor near them and he gave a satisfied grunt before moving away. He was back in less than a second with one of the heavy flashlights in his hand. He quickly dropped to his knees and leaned over with his head near the floor, shining the light under the shelves while Sam lifted them slightly.

Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise when Dean whistled softly. "I don't believe it." He set the flashlight on the ground with the light pointed into the wider gap that Sam created and reached his right arm into the space.

"He's alive?" Sweat ran down Sam's face while he held the heavy shelves steady. The stripe of pain across the back of his shoulder burned with an intensity that had him biting at his lip to hold in a groan. The fire was spreading out from the original liquid trail and some of the wooden props that had sheltered Sam were burning brightly. The radiating heat was starting to make the skin on Sam's face feel hot and pinched. Dean was right, they really had to get a move on.

Dean grunted and stretched his arm a little further before pulling it rapidly out from under the shelves. He held their second Beretta up with a satisfied smile and Sam scowled. "What about Chauncey?"

The side of Dean's mouth curled up in disgust and he gave a casual shrug. "Him? Remember that roach the size of a VW that time in Florida? You almost threw up when I stepped on it?"

Sam lowered the shelves and backed up.

"Well, he's not quite that bad," Dean finished as he rose smoothly to his feet and handed Sam the recovered gun. "But he's history. Now let's get out of here."

Sam grabbed the axe that Dean had dropped and followed his brother through the break and into the maze of tarp covered mounds. It was disturbingly easy to see in the valleys between the stacked furniture and Sam felt a new sense of urgency when he realized that the fire had grown hot enough to move from the contents of the room to the structure itself, igniting a small section of the wooden wall. The smoke was starting to bank down from the high roof and they both crouched down slightly, instinctively trying to increase their distance from it. The fact that the building was not a modern airtight structure was slowing down the buildup of smoke and gases, but definitely not stopping it.

The passed through the gap in the second mound and were faced with the unbroken expanse of the first mound. Sam felt like a rat in a maze when they swerved to the right to head towards the end of the mound. They had only gone a couple of steps when a fireball exploded to life in front of the office door. The burning line of gasoline had finally gotten close enough to the lake of fuel poured in the front of the barn to ignite the fumes. The brothers dropped to their hands and knees as the flames licked over the top of the first mound. The overwhelming smell of burning wood was joined by the stench of burning plastic as the tarp ignited…and other smells that Sam didn't want to think about.

A cold shudder ran through Sam's body at the realization that if they hadn't spent a minute trying to reach Chauncey they might have been in front of the office door when the fumes ignited. He ruthlessly squashed the following thought. That the narrow escape from death was just a temporary reprieve.

The fire began eating hungrily at the wall around the office door, the low crackle being replaced by a growing roar. Eventually the fire would reach the cases of sterno…and the remaining gasoline cans in the back. There was absolutely no comfort in the thought that by the time the fire could heat the barbeque's propane tank up enough to BLEVE, he and Dean would probably already be dead.

They scrambled back the way they had come, the distance and remaining mounds cutting the scorching heat. Neither of them looked at the second fire in the back of the barn as they burst through the break in the last mound and ran to the barn doors. The pile of wooden crates had turned into a growing bonfire and the nearby wooden shelves were joining the party. If Dean hadn't tossed the pesticides away from the shelves it might have been 'say goodnight, Gracie' right then and there. As awkward as it would be to have to come up with a reason for their presence in a burning building with two dead bodies, Sam began to pray fervently that they would hear approaching sirens any second.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm when it looked like his brother was heading towards the burning shelves. "Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

"There was a chain saw over there." Dean's shoulders slumped as his eyes took in the fire starting to push harder from the shelves. "It's gone now." He wouldn't look at Sam before he turned to scan the back of the barn for the tools that Reilly had scattered everywhere. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that Dean was trying to hide his growing fear from his little brother.

Sam brought the flat side of the axe head down like a sledgehammer, knocking the door handle and latch cleanly off the door. If the chain was attached to the outside handles one side might fall free. He switched his grip and used the end of the axe like a battering ram, smashing against the wood near the destroyed handles. The doors didn't budge. Whatever the chain was attached to, it wasn't the handles. He moved his battering ram assault to the outer edges of the doors and looked for any sign of weakness near the hinges, but the doors were too solid to splinter under the attack, the points of contact between them and the barn's framing too well made.

Each breath was clawing at his throat as he hit at the doors, smoke seeming to wind its way into his lungs and making them spasm. He dropped the head of the axe to the ground for a second, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm as he coughed violently. Dean was instantly at his side, hitting him on the back. "I couldn't find anything else," Dean rasped out, lifting the crowbar in his hand.

Sam nodded and pulled the neck of his shirt up over his nose and mouth before shifting his grip on the axe again. He brought the blade down hard above the hole where the door handle had been. The doors and walls were too solid for them to chop an escape route through, but if they could loosen up whatever was anchoring one side of the chain… Dean joined in with the crowbar, jamming the end in and working to gouge out the wood.

With each second that they worked the smoke seemed to get denser and push down closer and closer to them. The roar of the fire grew and something fell over near the front of the barn as its support was burnt out from under it. The boys didn't look away from their task, knowing there was no place for them to take refuge in the structure, no other spots that offered a better possibility for their escape. In the back of Sam's mind was the thought that this was the best place for them to be if they couldn't get out on their own. The fire crews would probably cut the chains and come in these doors.

Dean dropped the crowbar and reached his right arm across his chest, holding his left arm tight to his body. His face twisted in pain as he dropped to his knees coughing. Sam gave the door one last fierce hit with the axe and then threw the tool down to the ground in disgust. The air was too hot and smoky for him to continue standing and he dropped weakly down next to Dean. He threw his arm over Dean's shoulders and tilted his head so that their foreheads were close to each other and then spent a moment just struggling to breathe without one of his lungs deciding it would rather reside outside of his body. He drew strength from his brother's closeness. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was happy Dean was there with him…nah, he'd be a hell of a lot happier if Dean was somewhere safe on the other side of the doors. But that didn't change the fact that it didn't matter if Dean was in just as bad shape as Sam, Sam felt stronger with his brother next to him.

"Somebody has to have called the fire department." Sam fought to yell to be heard over the roar of the flames, but it took a little more air than his lungs were interested in holding. It came out as more of a croak. "They've got to be here any second. We've just gotta hold on till then."

Sam released his hold on his brother and picked up the axe, using it to batter against the very bottom of the doors where the two came together. The doors bowed outwards slightly, just enough to create a tiny gap between the bottom of the door and the jamb in that spot. Dean grabbed the crow bar and jammed it into the space, using his weight to lever the doors slightly and increase the gap. He reached over and grabbed Sam by the shoulder, shoving him downwards. He didn't lower himself to the ground until Sam's face was near the gap, and he was sure his brother was catching a trickle of fresh air.

They lay head to head with both of their faces against the gap, a hand cupped to protect the sweet outside air from the dense smoke settling around them. The heat against their backs increased and there was a crash as another shelf tumbled over. A series of loud bangs marked the explosions of some type of aerosol cans and Sam stretched his arm over his head, resting his forearm across the back of Dean's head and grasping his shoulder.

He refused to consider that things could go badly here. Someone would come through these doors before it was too late. Because if he didn't believe that would happen he would have to climb back onto his feet, back into the superheated gases gathering above him, and do whatever he could to break through the door. The inhalation burns and smoke would make his efforts to get free a moot point—he would die even if by some miracle the doors were opened.

If he didn't believe that someone would be coming through the door, then it wouldn't matter that he would be inviting a quicker death by standing up. Because Winchesters did not go out cowering on the floor.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Okay, look, I know it's another cliffhanger. But once the action starts rolling you kind of have no choice when you're figuring out where to end the chapter. It's either a cliffhanger or you have to break up the action and suspense.

That's my story and I'm sticking with it. LOL

This is me. You _were_ expecting the fire, weren't you?

BLEVE: Boiling Liquid Expanding Vapor Explosion. Liquid propane in a tank can start to boil in the heat of a fire. The contents of the tank are already under pressure, and the expanding vapor can cause a catastrophic failure. The size of the possible explosion and fireball is quite impressive and terrifying. Sam's a smart guy, there's every reason to think he'd know what a BLEVE was.

This is a different fear than Dean's when the grill was levitating. Dean was more afraid of a break in the tank allowing the gas to escape. Propane escaping from a tank like that can rev a fire up like you wouldn't believe. We had a house fire once and couldn't figure out why we couldn't put the dang thing out. The propane tank on the back of the house was supposed to be empty. Turned out the propane company had mistakenly just filled it and the constant supply of fresh propane into the structure was defeating our efforts. Fires involving compressed gases are fought using a whole host of specific methods that we train on. Some seriously cool stuff. Sidenote—The homeowner sued the propane company and has a beautiful new home. Thank god no one was hurt.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **I had wanted to post this chapter yesterday but ended up running my tail off the entire day. Considering it was around 100 degrees and humid, I was a little too whupped to jump through the hoops needed to post last night. Yep, computer is still wacko. To make up for the delay I made sure the chapter is one of the longer ones.

Thanks so much for the kind reviews and support for the story!

**Warnings**: They're still cursing. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 16:

_They lay head to head with both of their faces against the gap, a hand cupped to protect the sweet outside air from the dense smoke settling around them. The heat against their backs increased and there was a crash as another shelf tumbled over. A series of loud bangs marked the explosions of some type of aerosol cans and Sam stretched his arm over his head, resting his forearm across the back of Dean's head and grasping his shoulder._

_He refused to consider that things could go badly here. Someone would come through these doors before it was too late. Because if he didn't believe that would happen he would have to climb back onto his feet, back into the superheated gases gathering above him, and do whatever he could to break through the door. The inhalation burns and smoke would make his efforts to get free a moot point—he would die even if by some miracle the doors were opened._

_If he didn't believe that someone would be coming through the door, then it wouldn't matter that he would be inviting a quicker death by standing up. Because Winchesters did not go out cowering on the floor._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 17**

The reversal of usual roles should have felt weird to Dean, but he was too concerned with the two of them staying alive to even think about it. He would have been the one with the comforting arm draped over his brother…if he was actually capable of lifting his left arm into that position. But his shoulder was already too close to a full blown spasm, and he was going to need a functioning left arm to kick Quincy's ass when they got out of this barn.

He would never admit that Sam's arm _was_ comforting…that he had spent so much time worrying about his brother over the last few days that he had lost sight of the fact that his little brother was a grown man, a strong man who wanted to take care of Dean as much as Dean wanted to take care of him…a good brother who cared about him… Nah, that was the kind of stuff you admitted…that you thought about…when you believed there was a chance you were about to die. And they weren't dying in this barn.

It grew darker around them as the smoke banked down, cutting the light from the fire. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tears ran sideways across his face, dripping off of his temple and onto the floor as he waited for the irritation from the smoke to ease. Popping and crackling sounds were increasing, interspersed more frequently with breaking glass and crashes as catering supplies tumbled from the burnt out shelves.

The steadily intensifying heat started to burn small patches on the back of his neck, spots that weren't protected by his brother's arm. His right ear felt like it was being slow roasted and he remembered reading somewhere that firemen used to know it was time to get out of a building when their ears started burning. The rest of his body wholeheartedly agreed with his exposed ear. It was time to get out of this damned building. Without the fresh cool air making its way to them they would have already been in bad shape.

The side of his right hand was pressed tightly against the barn door, creating a safe passage to his nose and mouth for the air coming under the door. He thought it was his imagination at first when the wood against his hand began to move. Short, jerky movements, as though someone was working on the outside of the door. Sam's arm across the back of his head was withdrawn and he could feel Sam stirring. Dean mirrored his brother's movements, taking a deep breath and then pushing himself up onto his elbow with his mouth clamped shut against the choking smoke.

There was a short, sharp, jerk and then the gap between the doors widened cautiously. The brothers pushed themselves into a crouch, feeling the increase in heat even with that small change in height.

Dean decided he didn't really understand the meaning of 'hot' until the opening doors cranked up the furnace behind them. The brothers surged forward, trying to get away from it. They shoved the doors the rest of the way open and threw themselves into the cold night. They'd both been around fire enough to know what the sudden influx of fresh air would do. A shadowy figure had jumped back in surprise when they pushed through the doors and out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam tackle the man to the ground and crawl over him, using his body to shield their savior. Both Winchesters covered their heads with their arms as a loud roar whooshed over them. Flames boiled out of the top of the open doorway in a spectacular rollover, a roiling mass that shot far beyond the edge of the door before collapsing back in on itself.

They were on their knees and scrambling away from the intense heat as soon as the flames were no longer shooting sideways out of the top of the door. Dean almost laughed at the dazed look on Bob's face when Sam rolled off of him and grabbed the collar of his jacket to drag him away from the barn. The fire was taking advantage of its escape from the interior, moving hungrily up the front of the wooden building. They rose to their feet as soon as they were far enough from the door and stumbled farther away from the suddenly explosive fire. Both brothers were partially bent over, wracked by coughs as they moved, and Bob scurried along between them, smacking both of their backs.

Dean wiped at his tearing eyes and blearily took in their surroundings. They were at the far end of the barn, hidden from the tavern door. But now that the fire had broken through to light up the night sky gawkers were sure to start spreading out in the tavern courtyard. He pulled Sam's arm to keep him moving, not trusting his voice yet. They trotted quickly along the gravel drive that ran next to the barn, the large wooden structure between them and the crowd that was starting to gather outside of the tavern. No one was looking in their direction when they edged cautiously past the small gap in the hedge near the gift shop. They didn't stop until they were a safe distance from the fire and well hidden by the screen of bushes that ran next to the drive. The voices on the other side of the hedge were high pitched and excited, yelling back and forth to each other.

Sam bent over with his hands on his knees, sounding like he was coughing up a hairball. Dean concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and steady. Gulping in the cold air just made his chest want to clench up in another coughing fit. Sirens were sounding in the distance, the wail slowly increasing.

Bob hovered next to Sam, his expression alternating between worry and absolute adoration. Dean bit back a chuckle when the inn's manager pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing at the blood on the side of Sam's face, his mouth going a mile a minute with nervous chatter.

"The fire department is on its way…I'm so so sorry. I was shocked when Richard walked in, and then he didn't let me out of his sight…maybe you should go to the hospital?...I wanted to come find you…God…Did he know you were in the barn?...if I'd even thought he knew…the best I could do was to sneak some text messages to warn you…" Bob broke off, biting at his bottom lip as he gently continued to wipe Sam's face.

"Phone vibrated…little too busy to check…" Sam gasped out as his coughs eased.

"Dick was practically holding court in the tavern. The life of the party telling stories and paying special attention to anyone who looked like they wanted to leave. I knew he was up to something but I just couldn't get away from him. Did he have a hand in the fire?" His face hardened into hatred when Dean nodded in the affirmative. "The bastard must have been making sure no one went out and saw the barn until it was too late to save anything. The alarm system back there doesn't work without electricity. If a new customer hadn't come in and said he smelled smoke…" Bob began gnawing at his bottom lip again and shook his head, his eyes glistening with sudden moisture. "Dick couldn't stop us from coming outside then. I saw smoke coming out from the eaves and ran in to call the fire department and grab the key."

"Where's Quincy?" Dean growled.

"He led the charge outside to investigate the smoke. He was still out there when I went to get the key."

Dean's eyes shifted between the screen of bushes blocking their view of the tavern courtyard and his brother's hunched over form. As strong as the urge was to immediately go after Quincy, the urge to make sure his brother was okay was infinitely stronger.

Bob's hand stilled with the handkerchief still on the side of Sam's face and his eyes widened. He began looking around them as though he'd just realized something was missing. "Wasn't Gary with you?"

"He's dead," Dean answered simply. "So's Chauncey."

The sirens were practically on top of them and shut off abruptly, the roar of powerful engines and screeching tires announcing the arrival of two vehicles that went around the far side of the inn and into the tavern parking lot. Red lights filtered through the tiny gaps in the foliage. Not strong enough or high enough to be fire engines yet. The police were there.

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and towed him along until they were next to the end of the east wing, on the edge of the radiance thrown by the light next to the door. They were out of sight of both sides of the barn there. The police were sure to circle the barn, looking for any sign that there were people trapped. The open doors on the far end would definitely cause an uproar.

Bob's face was pale when they stopped, and he looked back and forth between them with his mouth hanging open. When he rested his hand on Sam's back Dean wasn't sure if he was trying to comfort Sam or himself. "What happened to Gary and Chauncey?" he squeaked out.

"Chauncey killed Gary, the barn killed Chauncey. Must have been pissed off at the amount of gasoline he was spreading around." Dean ignored Bob's shell shocked look. "They're going to be able to tell this was arson, dude. Did anyone else, besides Quincy, know we were in there? Anybody see you unlocking the doors?"

"No, I don't see how they could. I came out of this door so no one even saw me going to the barn." He pointed at the door that led into the east wing. It was the same way he and Sam had exited on their way to the barn.

Dean wiped at his still tearing eyes and nodded his head. "It would make life a lot easier if you don't tell anybody we were in there. Getting caught up with the local yokels could cause some problems."

"But what about…Shouldn't you two go to the hospital?" Bob lifted his hand, wordlessly showing Dean the blood that had smeared on it from the back of Sam's jacket. The world wobbled under Dean's feet for a second and his eyes flew to his brother's face.

"Sammy," Dean bit out. Sam had hunched over again as soon as they stopped, his fist pressed to his mouth as he tried to muffle his coughing. Dean had thought his brother was being quiet because of irritation caused by the smoke, but it wouldn't be the first time Sam had downplayed an injury because he didn't think the time was right to deal with it.

Sam looked up and met Dean's gaze without flinching. "It's just a graze, Dean," he said, his voice hoarse from coughing. "Hurts like hell but it's not going to kill me."

Dean lifted his index finger into the air and made a little circle. Sam sighed and straightened up with a wince before turning so his back was to Dean. He shrugged his right arm out of his jacket and Dean's eyes caught a quick glimpse of a neat bullet hole and a small patch of blood on the back of the jacket. Sam's shirt was in slightly worse shape. Dean pressed his lips into a firm line to stop the string of curses he wanted to let loose at the blood soaking into the back of the long sleeve T. Bob had gasped at the sight of the bullet hole, but he began to sway when he saw the blood and Sam reached a hand out to steady him.

The shirt was loose and Dean lifted it gently, not knowing if any material was caught on the wound. He examined the gouge across the back of his brother's shoulder critically. He'd have to take a better look in proper light, but he didn't think it would even require stitches. There was still some blood welling from it, but it looked like it was already clotting. Dean dropped the edge of the shirt and held Sam's jacket so he could slip his arm back into the sleeve. "You're right, it's not gonna kill ya." He purposely kept his voice light. Wouldn't do to let geek boy know that the sight of the furrow across his skin twisted Dean's gut uncomfortably. Didn't matter if it was a minor injury in the world according to Winchester, it was his little brother. And if the bullet's path had been different by an inch or two… With the jacket on he could see the second hole where the bullet must have exited.

Dean coughed to clear his throat and turned to spit to the side, grimacing at the smoky taste of the mucus he cleared. He was reassured that Sam's breathing seemed close to normal when he turned back around. There were smudges of black on Sam's face, but only a slight darkening under his nostrils. He had a feeling his own face looked about the same. They would have to keep an eye on each other through the night and head to a hospital if there were any breathing problems, but he was pretty sure they were both okay. His face split into a fierce grin. "You ready to get this bastard, Sammy?"

"But…but…he's been shot!" Bob sputtered, looking at Dean as though the hunter was dragging his brother from his death bed.

"It's not a big deal, Bob, really," Sam reassured him.

Bob looked from Sam's calm expression to Dean's smirk and brought his hand up to rub his forehead. "God save me from macho men."

Dean's smirk grew. "You know you love us."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The cold night air was moving more easily in and out of Sam's lungs, the choking irritation that ran from his throat down into his chest definitely easing. He ran a critical eye over his brother. It was standard Dean _m.o._ to overreact to Sam's bumps and bruises while ignoring his own injuries. Sam didn't know if Dean did it intentionally to deflect unwanted attention away from himself, or if Dean just honestly didn't think his own health was as important as Sam's.

Sam was more than willing to turn the tables on his brother, though. "How about you? How are you doing? You're not coughing too bad." For whatever reason, Dean seemed to have recovered from his minor bout of smoke inhalation more quickly than Sam.

"Guess I'm in better shape than you, my lungs are stronger," Dean said with a smirk.

"I think it's more likely I got a heftier dose than you," Sam shrugged, trying to keep his expression serious. "The smoke and gases and stuff are worse the higher you are above the ground."

Dean's face creased in thought for a second but settled into a scowl when Bob snorted. "Not my fault you're a freak," he muttered.

"How's your shoulder?" Sam was confident that the question would get an honest response. It was one thing for Dean to downplay pain when it wouldn't affect the job, but if they were going up against Quincy then Dean had to be honest about any limitations. They had already experienced just how debilitating the spasm in his shoulder could be when Dean had struggled to defend himself on the side of the road.

"It feels like it wants to lock up on me," Dean said, cautiously running his arm through a range of motions, "but so far, so good. Let's do this, man."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "How? Gotta plan here?"

The area around the inn was quickly turning into the center of a storm of excited activity. Additional sirens were converging on their location, these were the throatier 'Q' sirens that were mounted on fire trucks. The engine sound of one large vehicle lessened slightly as it went around the far side of the inn, but another seemed to be heading straight for them, flashing red lights starting to bounce off of the gravel of the drive. Bob moved quickly to the inn's side door and held it open, waiting for them to duck inside before he closed it.

"There are no hydrants out here," Bob explained as the engine went past the door. "We had a big shed burn down a couple of years ago and they had to send an engine to the pond to suck up water until they could get some portable pools set up." They stepped back out of the door, watching the flashing red lights as they continued towards the barn and the pond beyond it.

"So…like I was saying. You got a plan, dude?" Sam looked at his brother with raised eyebrows. He knew Dean would understand the unspoken part of the question—even if they could quietly separate Quincy from the crowd, what the hell were they going to do with him?

Dean tore his eyes away from Sam's, emotions flying across his face. The anger and desire for revenge were right on top, but Sam wasn't worried. As tough as Dean liked to think he was, Sam knew his brother would never just kill the man in cold blood. No matter how tempting that option was.

Sam began to wonder if his confidence in his brother's self control was misplaced when every expression left Dean's face except for fury. Until he realized that Dean's eyes were fixed on the area in the front of the inn and Dean was reaching for the Beretta he had tucked back into his waistband. He spun around and something cold bloomed in his own chest when he saw what had caught Dean's eye.

Richard Quincy was standing on the far side of the circular drive that ran in front of the inn, his hand on the open door of a large black Escalade parked on the drive. He seemed frozen in place, bathed in the SUV's interior light, his head turned in their direction. Sam had no doubt that, even at that distance, he and Dean were just as easy to see standing in the pool of light in front of the door. Any doubts that Quincy had noticed them were squashed when the man leapt into the front of the large vehicle and slammed the door as soon as Dean began to sprint towards him, Sam on his heels.

The Escalade was roaring to life, its lights flashing on as rubber burned under its wheels, before the brothers even reached the edge of the front parking area. Dean swerved towards the parked Impala as the SUV flew away from them heading towards the road. Sam halted for just a second, looking over the roof of the Impala and watching which direction Quincy turned as he skidded out of the inn's front drive. He winced when a fire truck approaching from the right had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting the fleeing vehicle.

"Well, at least we don't have to worry about how to get him alone," Dean growled as Sam slid into the passenger seat.

Sam grabbed Dean's hand, stopping him from throwing the Impala into reverse. "Wait." First one, and then a second fire truck, passed behind them, following the fork in the drive that would take them to the rear of the inn. "Okay."

Dean backed the car up and jerked the wheel, sliding them around to face the road in a move that would have made a stunt driver proud. "Let's get the hell out of here before any more get here. Which way?"

"Left. The guys in that truck are going to remember him flying out of here. The owner of the inn running away from the fire? They're going to know he was involved," Sam said with a grim smile. The Impala turned smoothly onto the road, the motor emitting a throaty growl as they rapidly accelerated. There were times that Sam definitely understood his brother's love affair with the car.

"Solves our problem of what to do when we catch up to him. I vote for leaving him hog tied and making a phone call to the police. Maybe the state police too. And the feds. With dead bodies in the barn?" Dean whistled softly but it died out and he shot a sideways glance at Sam. "We gonna have a problem if anything is left of your ankle rig when they pull Chauncey out?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dude, I actually paid attention when Dad taught us about hiding our tracks. They're not going to be able to pull any usable prints off of anything in it. And it wasn't my leather." The lighter weight nylon ankle holster was sure to melt from the heat, fusing with the outside of both the gun and the knife. Especially considering the proximity of the ATV's extra gas cans to Chauncey's body.

The dark scenery flew by the Impala's windows. They hadn't even caught a glimpse of Quincy's taillights yet, the gentle roll of the road keeping the lights hidden. Dean pressed a little harder on the gas pedal and Sam looked at him with a scowl. "Watch the fancy driving, Mario. It screwed up your shoulder last time."

"I promise to behave, grandpop," Dean smirked.

An ambulance and an additional fire truck accompanied by two more police cars flew past them, heading towards the inn with their sirens blaring. Sam caught Dean throwing him another quick glance and twisting his mouth as though he didn't even want to ask the next question. Sam sighed, knowing what was coming and deciding to beat Dean to the punch. "No, I'm not picking up any vibes to tell me if we got rid of him completely or just got him out of the barn."

Dean nodded his head without taking his eyes from the dark road in front of them. Sam began to tense when he realized they would soon be at the point in the road where Reilly had plopped him down in the middle of Nate's truck. The heavy engine noise, the dark landscape unspooling past the window…it was all becoming eerily familiar and Sam reached his hand to brace himself against the dashboard, ready to tell Dean to pull over if the temperature felt like it was dropping by as much as a degree.

The road straightened and Sam knew they were approaching the tree where Nate had crashed and the twists and turns of the road through Robber's Woods beyond it. The fire and police apparatus were long gone from the earlier accident, but as they got closer to the tree Sam felt momentarily dizzy, a strong sense of déjà vu running through him at the sight of another tall black vehicle resting against the large tree.

"I don't freaking believe it," Dean said softly. He slowed the Impala as they neared the Escalade, and Sam tightened his grip on his Beretta. "I don't think it crashed." Dean's eyes scanned the SUV suspiciously and he slowed them down to a crawl.

Dean was right. It was canted off the road at a strange angle, the driver's door hanging open, but when they drew even with the tree they could see that the Escalade hadn't actually hit it. It looked as though Quincy had just pulled it sloppily off of the road and parked. Dean stopped the Impala and then backed up, angling the car slightly so that the Escalade was sandwiched between the tree and the large black car.

They climbed out cautiously, guns held ready, and slowly circled the black SUV. The driver's door was wide open, the interior empty.

Sam stood with his back to the Escalade, his eyes running over the tall grass that blanketed the field next to them. They already knew that grass could hide a man as big as Gary was. Dean leaned towards Sam and whispered into his ear. "I'm going to move the car to the dirt road where it's out of sight. Watch your back."

"Yeah, you too. I'll take a quick look around for tracks and then meet you at the turnoff."

"You sure you're ok out here alone for a few?"

A question like that would normally produce an elaborate eye roll, but Sam knew what Dean was really asking. Despite the placement of the abandoned SUV, he didn't sense Reilly's presence. He gave a quick shrug. "I'm not feeling anything out here right now." It was an honest answer. For now. "Go move the car before another cop comes flying by here."

Dean's hand clasped his shoulder briefly, a warm and steadying weight, and then it was gone. The Impala's engine purred as the car moved slowly away. Sam strained his ears, listening for any movements in the grass on either side of the road. He turned on the small penlight he had grabbed from the Impala's glove compartment and ran the narrow beam over the ground next to the SUV. The dirt was scuffed near the driver's door, but there were no distinct tracks to follow. He moved to the other side of the large maple where water had been used on Nate's truck. The temperature was still just above freezing and the damp ground might hold some tracks.

The narrow beam of the penlight did little to impair his night vision, and he constantly lifted his head to keep an eye on the fields around him and the edge of the trees in front of him. The winds had never picked up again, and there was only a soft breeze moving over the tips of the grass and rustling the few dry leaves clinging stubbornly to branches. He looked for any variations in the movement of the grass, any ripples that seemed separate from the rest…and began to realize just how paranoid such hyper watchfulness could make you. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as though there were eyes fixed on him. He shook his head and returned his attention to the ground. Years of experience should have done a little more to inoculate him against being creeped out by spooky nights.

There were some interesting footprints in the damp ground. Tracks that sat on top of the other footprints and tire tracks. He might have thought they were left by the last emergency worker or policeman on the scene, but he didn't think any of them would be wearing smooth soled shoes with a slightly pointed tip. The best he could determine was that the trail led down the side of the road, away from the grass fields and towards Robber's Woods.

The Impala was still on the road, the taillights shining red. Dean was riding the brake, crawling along. Probably trying to check out the woods on both sides. He drove well past the turnoff, searching, and then began to back up, finally swiveling the rear end of the car to back into the dirt road.

The feeling of being watched crept back into Sam's mind and a delicate shiver ran down his spine. He turned his head slowly, looking over his shoulder, and felt a moment of dizziness. The night behind him was filled with unfamiliar shadows. His stomach lurched and his fingers clenched the gun more tightly as he spun around. The shadows marched off down both sides of the road and the slight dizziness increased. They were tall dark shapes, unmoving. The shadows of trees overlaying the land that was now grassy fields. Sam's heart jackhammered in his chest at the feeling that there was danger in those trees, a danger that was watching, waiting.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. There was no danger in those trees. There _were_ no friggin trees. They faded away and grassy fields with just an occasional large old tree breaking their expanse were once again in front of him.

Sam tore his eyes away from the phantom forest and turned back towards the real forest. It wasn't the time to think about what his mini hallucination meant, not when Quincy might be in the woods near where Dean was climbing out of the car. He picked up his pace, heading towards the dirt road and his brother. Dean was probably waiting for him by the open trunk, impatient to get started.

The road around him darkened as he stepped beyond the edge of Robber's Woods. It was quiet in the midst of the trees, even the breeze seeming to hold its breath. Logically, he knew that the moon threw off no warmth, and yet it seemed colder in the shadows thrown by thick bare branches and a healthy number of evergreens. His own soft footsteps on the pavement were audible in the stillness of the air. Faintly, so faintly, another sound began to intrude. A rapid drumbeat coming closer, coming from the road beyond the turnoff, beyond the curve that led more deeply into the woods.

A heavy shudder rolled across Sam's shoulders as the temperature dropped. His own breathing was a harsh sound in his ears. He stood still and held his breath and the drumbeat came closer. It was rushing towards him, becoming more distinct and gaining detail. A quick tattoo thudding onto hard dirt, the jingle of metal, a keening cry of fury and sorrow. And in back of him—new sounds. Soft whispers of anticipation, muffled crying.

In a daze Sam turned to look behind him. The grassy fields beyond the edge of the trees were gone, the line of the woods continuing unbroken along the sides of the road. The large old maple that had stopped Nate's truck in its tracks was just a sapling. He let the breath he had been holding out in a _whoosh_ and it turned to a frosty mist that floated up in front of his face. The world spun and Sam fought to stay upright as the blacktop in front of him grew hazy.

The air brightened into a hazy twilight, the dark of night losing its grip on the landscape in his mind. Smithton Forest stretched in both directions along the dirt road in front of him. Somehow he knew that he was a half mile from the first of Smith's farm fields. It was a joke among the men that people had begun calling the woods owned by the Tory bastard 'Robber's Wood' in their honor. A title that infuriated the British loving landowner.

Hoofbeats drummed against the road, approaching from around the curve to his left. To his right, a command hushed the whispers in the woods and the muffled sobbing was cut off. Fear was a cold wave flooding through him.

The figure tearing around the curve was almost unrecognizable, his face twisted in a mask of such agony, so pale it was almost gray in the midday light. Sunlight glittered off of the sword in his hand and his ponytail flew behind him. His large bay horse was lathered in sweat, his hoofs leaving clouds of white dust in the air behind him. Sam's eyes fixed on the wine red coat and brown breeches and he felt himself being drawn towards the man on horseback, the world a blur around him.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Richard Quincy leaned back, trying to blend with the thick tree trunk behind him when the large black car cruised slowly past. He tightened his hands into fists, determined to still their trembling. It was every bad dream of his youth coming true when his car had been forced to the side of the road. He had flung his door open and practically fallen in his haste to get out of the car when a thin sheen of frost had begun to coat the inside of the windshield. Leaning over to unlock his glove box and retrieve his gun was not an option. Nuh uh. He was convinced that if he'd made that move he'd have never made it out of the SUV. His stumbling run had taken him away from the car, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if _it_…if anything was following him.

He had grown up in the inn, he'd heard the stories passed down through generations of his family. Things really did go 'bump in the night' in his family home. Flickers of movement in the corner of his eye, lights in rooms that were dark and quiet when he drew near. He'd outgrown the nightmares by the time he was a teenager and started to think of the spirits as nothing more than faint shades robed in a quiet sadness. But lately…the nightmares had come back. He had felt in his bones that when they disturbed those graves something had been stirred to life, that something was coming, and that it wasn't a gentle soul like their usual visitors. It was violent, and angry, and if his great great _whatever_ grandbitch's accounts were to be believed, it would be looking for revenge against anyone with the last name of Quincy.

He wasn't planning on sticking around to wait for his family's history to catch up with him, or for the feds to make their move. There was already a lot of money in the offshore accounts, he'd been getting ready to leave ever since McDermott had let him know that Dago Sonny was going to find out about his creative bookkeeping. It had seemed so simple to just accelerate his schedule. Tie up a couple of loose ends tonight and be out of the country within a day or two. Piece of cake. His performance in the tavern had been flawless. The fire's discovery had been delayed long enough to ensure heavy damage if not total destruction. He'd always known he would kick ass as an actor, and tonight proved it. Not one smile had escaped when he'd seen the amount of smoke coming from the barn.

And then things had begun to unravel. When the police asked him _again_ if anyone could have been inside the barn, because the barn doors were wide open… He'd known. He'd just _known_ that those feds had gotten out. It was no surprise when he saw them on the side of the inn. But that was okay. It just meant he had to go underground for a day before getting out of the country.

He should have known the nightmares he'd packed away with his childhood toys weren't really gone. They were just biding their time. When he'd found his steering wheel turning no matter how much he fought it, his engine dying, he'd known his nightmares were in the car with him, and they wanted his blood.

But they weren't going to get it. He just had to get out of the other side of the woods. This thing couldn't follow him forever.

He moved quietly through the trees, keeping to the shadows, until they began to thin and the dirt road came into view. The old muscle car was backing slowly into the newly cleared road. The driver was smart. The darkness would make the car tough to see from the road, but it was positioned to get out quickly if he made a run for it. They didn't know he had no intention of going back to the Escalade. He'd always wanted to try a classic like the Impala.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Dean turned the key, quieting the rumble of the Impala's motor. He slouched down in his seat and leaned his head back with a tired sigh, rubbing his shoulder. It wasn't as bad as the night before, but it definitely wasn't happy with him. His eyes slid to half mast as he let his exhaustion show for just a moment. He'd have to suck it up in a minute when Sam reached him, but he needed a moment without the mask.

He felt like they were treading water and getting no where fast. Every time he thought they'd finally taken a step forward he found out they were still moving sideways. Did a salt and burn on Bess, and she was still around. Got out of the barn so they could nail Richard, and he slipped through their fingers. Found Reilly's remains, dumped salt on them and set them ablaze… After seeing Richard's SUV in _that_ spot, he wasn't laying money on Reilly actually being gone, whether Sam sensed him or not.

Crap. And he'd left Sam alone out there.

Dean straightened up in the seat with a groan. His shoulder really was dying to lock up on him again. He leaned over and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the bottle of Advil and the prescription bottle he'd stashed there when he left the Hancocks. He popped a couple of Advil into his mouth but threw the prescription muscle relaxant back into the compartment with a sigh of regret. It didn't seem to make him drowsy earlier, but on top of his current exhaustion he couldn't take a chance.

The Impala's door squeaked when he pushed it open, the harsh noise out of place in the quiet woods. The night was cold, but no more than you'd expect from a November night in Massachusetts. Sure as hell beat the heat in the barn. The door shut with a solid _thunk_ and he stepped away from the side of the car, the Beretta in his hand. The cold air almost caused another coughing fit when he drew in a deep lungful, but he pushed the urge down. He released the breath in a long slow exhalation, finding that spot inside of him where pain and tiredness became irrelevant and concentration on the hunt took over. He pivoted in a slow circle, taking in the woods around him. Looking and listening for anything that seemed out of place.

He moved quietly to the edge of the road and was relieved to immediately spot Sam. The penlight was pointing down, but Sam seemed more interested in checking out the woods around him and the road in back of him than he was in looking at the ground. So he either hadn't found any sign of Quincy, or he already had a good idea of which direction the inn's owner was heading. Either way, Sam would be with him to give him an update in a minute.

Dean retraced his steps to the Impala, unlocking the trunk and pulling up the heavy hood as he debated the best way to dress for this party. Now that it looked like the guest list had been expanded to include Daniel Reilly. He paused with his hand on the lifted lid, looking into the deep trunk with a scowl. A couple of duffles and other bags, the wrapped journal, the sword, a bag of laundry… Without thinking his left hand reached for a duffle. He was rewarded by a spike of pain across his shoulder as soon as he started to lift. The hell with it. There was pain tolerance…and then there was stupidly making things worse. The duffle landed heavily back in the trunk. Getting into the weapons stash would have to wait until Sam was there to get the junk out of the way. Sam had even stashed the weapons bag in the hidden compartment when Chauncey had implied that the police were on Quincy's payroll. Wonder how geek boy reconciled that with keeping the Berettas close at hand and strapping on his ankle holster.

He glanced around the edge of the upright trunk hood, looking towards the road. Where the hell was Andre the Giant? He should have reached the car by now. Dean moved to the side of the car for a better view of the main road. Enough moonlight filtered through the tangle of overhead branches for him to see Sam clearly, and his stomach sank in a way that was becoming much too familiar.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

A/N Look! No cliffhanger! At least I don't think it's a cliffhanger. So, everything is in place for the final confrontation you all knew was coming. But first we'll see what actually happened to Daniel Reilly.

A note about the 'burning ears'. The complete protective envelope worn by firefighters to enter burning structures is a relatively recent development. Not one square inch of the firefighter's body is supposed to be exposed. But before the nomex hoods came into use, the firefighter's ears and parts of their necks could be exposed. It was common knowledge that your ears burning was a warning that the fire was too hot, possibly heading towards flashover, and the firefighters had to back out. Some older firefighters complain that the complete envelope now worn takes away that early warning system. Of course most other firefighters are happier losing that early warning than losing their ears.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **If you haven't seen it yet, the SFTCOL(AR)S board is sponsoring the first annual LimpSam Awards. There are categories for fics, graphics, and vids. Some of the categories are an absolute hoot. We completely adore both brothers—there is no Sam without Dean and vice versa—but the awards have a slight 'Sam' weight to them because…because…well, because Dean is so wildly popular already, with a huge group of devoted and passionate 'Dean' fans, that we're just trying to give lil bro a boost and promote the wonder that is Sammy. But we're definitely 'bi-bro', so there are categories that are Dean heavy also.

If you go to the SFTCOL(AR)S forum, the "Limp!Sam Awards" category is in the **Asylum** section, or this link, hopefully, should take you right to the category

/mb/limpsam?forum119495

okay, for some reason the link doesn't seem to be coming out . I'll try posting the info on my profile too, maybe it will work there.

Nominations are for pieces from any season, any year, any source, any author/artist, so long as it is posted on the internet and not a WIP. Nominations are being taken in June, but the top nominees will be posted on the board in July, so you should definitely check it out to find stories, graphics, and vids that may have somehow passed you by. There are so many amazing Supernatural creations out there, I can't wait to see what is nominated so I can check them out. WOOHOO! Supernatural fan heaven! LOL Pass the word!

**A/N 2**: Yep, we're heading into the home stretch here. This chapter got to me when I wrote it. I'm kind of proud of it, so I hope you like it.

**Warnings**: They're still cursing. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 17:

_Hoofbeats drummed against the road, approaching from around the curve to his left. To his right, a command hushed the whispers in the woods and the muffled sobbing was cut off. Fear was a cold wave flooding through him._

_The figure tearing around the curve was almost unrecognizable, his face twisted in a mask of such agony, so pale it was almost gray in the midday light. Sunlight glittered off of the sword in his hand and his ponytail flew behind him. His large bay horse was lathered in sweat, his hoofs leaving clouds of white dust in the air behind him. Sam's eyes fixed on the wine red coat and brown breeches and he felt himself being drawn towards the man on horseback, the world a blur around him._

_-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-_

_He glanced around the edge of the upright trunk hood, looking towards the road. Where the hell was Andre the Giant? He should have reached the car by now. Dean moved to the side of the car for a better view of the main road. Enough moonlight filtered through the tangle of overhead branches for him to see Sam clearly, and his stomach sank in a way that was becoming much too familiar._

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 18**

He pulled on his horse's reins at the sight of Catherine standing by the wagon. Her face was blotchy from crying, her eyes swollen and red. When her message had reached him his world had collapsed around him. Bess. His Bess. Didn't she realize that in giving her life to save him she had taken away the thing he lived for? The pain had torn at him, ripping through his chest and his stomach, and his world had literally whited out, the desire for revenge wiping out all thought. He would see British blood that day.

But Catherine had loved Bess too. And the sight of her grief called to that broken part of him, smashed through the haze of fury that was driving him. His Bess was gone, and he wasn't the only one destroyed. He climbed down and dropped the reins, a small part of him shamed that he had driven the big bay so hard. The horse stood on trembling legs, its sides heaving in and out in mighty blows.

Catherine's hands reached out to him and he took a step forward to cross the distance between them. He stopped dead when he realized she was holding her hands up to ward him off. Her head began shaking a frantic 'no' as tears streamed down her face.

Daniel's face twisted in confusion at the man who stepped out from behind the wagon. His hand was on Catherine's arm in a gesture that the highwayman would have thought conveyed support, if not for the expression on the tavern worker's face. His lips were raised in a cold smile.

The man had cared for Bess, Daniel knew that. He would have expected George Quincy's face to also be marred by grief, not settled into a look of smug satisfaction. Daniel's fingers tightened on the hilt of the sword still clasped in his hand and he raised the tip into the air. The woods on both sides of the road seemed to come to life with flashes of red as British soldiers stepped into view, their muskets trained on him.

The sense of betrayal that slammed through Daniel was so intense that he feared he would disgrace himself by losing the contents of his stomach. The tip of his sword lowered until it was resting against the dirt road. His eyes searched Catherine's face but all he saw was sorrow and fear. "Catherine?" he asked softly.

Quincy's smile turned mocking. "Poor, loyal, stupid Catherine. When I came to her and told her that the British knew she had sent you a missive about Elizabeth's death, that they expected you to come after them, that they were waiting to ambush you at the tavern… Well, she came up with the idea to warn you before I could even suggest it. So predictable. She actually thought she was coming out here to save you. Imagine her surprise when my friends arrived."

Catherine's eyes fixed on his, the pain in them indescribable. "I'm sorry Daniel. I'm so very sorry."

He closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them he forced his mouth into a gentle smile. "This is not your fault Catherine. Sometimes the most vile of snakes wears the best disguise." He turned his gaze to Quincy, the smile falling into a thin angry line. "So it was you. All of this time. I knew the men did not flee to Boston, not without leaving some word. And I knew they could not all have been taken so quietly without the British receiving someone's help."

Quincy's smile faded and he gave a little shrug. "We all do what we need to do to make our way in this world. I'd thought my way was set…marry Bess, run the inn…until you arrived. You took away my plans, I had to make new ones."

"Where are the men?" Daniel asked in a cold whisper. "What prison have you spirited them away to?"

"My dear Daniel, you're standing right next to them." Quincy pointed at the edge of the woods to Daniel's right. "They're right there. So close I'm surprised you can't hear them calling to you."

Daniel didn't understand the look of cold amusement on George Quincy's face at first. Understanding dawned when he heard Catherine's gasp. And then the world around him became tinged with red, his anger burning so hot that he thought he might explode from it.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

_Oh God. Not again_. "Earth to Sasquatch," Dean called softly as he stepped onto the road. His tone was deceptively light, masking the fear that filled him at the sight of his brother staring off into space. There was no visible sign this time, no gathering mist for him to shoot at if he even had the shotgun in his hand. The frigid temperature hadn't even slammed into him until he reached the edge of the road.

As though his brother's rigid stance and seeming catatonia wasn't clue enough as to what was going on.

He moved to his brother's side and clasped his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. There was no response from Sam. Dean looked down the road, trying to figure out what his brother's eyes were locked on, but all he could see was the edge of the trees and the moonlit fields beyond them. A peaceful scene that gave him no clue what his brother had found himself in the middle of this time.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Sam was conscious of the weight on his shoulder and it helped to ground him, to remind him of himself, even if it lacked the power to pull him from the dark past. This was not like what had happened in Nate's truck. The connection to Reilly was strong, and he found himself living the events that had happened so long ago. He was sharing in Daniel's emotions, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, smelling the dust kicked up by his horse's hoofs. The hilt of the sword was real in his hand, and he knew that he could thrust and parry, wield it with a skill that went beyond any training he had received at Dean's side.

He looked around at the men in British uniform surrounding him, and he saw them with eyes that mixed present and past. In Reilly's eyes, the men who worked for the modern day Quincy were no better than the men who had done a Quincy's dirty work in the past. The British officer—his pinched lips, long aquiline nose, flat eyes—they were there and yet shadowed, overlain by Chauncey McDermott's features. The faces of other soldiers were similarly hazy, their real features almost obscured by the faces of Nate, and Pete, and Gary. Daniel's cold hatred of Quincy and the other men made sense now.

Catherine's face was pale, the shock of learning what had happened to the missing men obvious. Her hand pressed against her lips as though it was the only thing holding her cries in. The men who had been lost were neighbors and friends. They had thought, at worst, that the men had been quietly arrested, but the soldiers in front of him were nothing more than a gang of murderers.

Quincy turned slightly towards the British officer. "Captain, I assume the terms of our agreement remain the same?"

The captain's eyes narrowed. "A good bit of gold was taken from the courier by this trash. Much more than you were able to appropriate from the others. Our agreement may need to be adjusted."

Quincy looked back at Daniel with a slight smile. "A richer prize deserves a richer reward. Daniel, the gold please?"

Pain squeezed Daniel's heart. The gold that was supposed to grant he and Bess their freedom had played a part in her death. The pain settled in as a permanent part of him now, but the sorrow burned away. It left behind a hatred so thick and deep it filled his soul. If his men, Bess, had been betrayed because of a sense of loyalty to the British crown, because of duty, Daniel might have at least understood it. But there was no noble purpose behind their loss, only greed.

Daniel's shoulders slumped and he hung his head, tears making tracks through the dust that coated his face. His left hand reached for the purse hanging heavily from his belt. His fingers jostled the bag as he untied it, and the gold coins inside clinked loudly against each other, the size of the bounty easy to hear. He tossed the bag halfheartedly towards Quincy and it landed on the dirt road several feet in front of him with a solid thud.

Through the fringe of his lashes, Daniel saw the lust on the man's face as he stepped forward and leaned down to claim his prize. The sword lifted so rapidly that the movement was a blur. Daniel lunged forward, his right leg bent in front of him, his right arm extended straight. The silver sword was an extension of his arm, the sunlight glinting off of it so that it flared white. He felt the rapier's tip slide through the rough material of Quincy's coat, heard the man's indrawn breath as the metal entered his side.

The command to fire came almost simultaneously to the explosion of several of the muskets and Catherine's scream of anguish. Daniel looked into George Quincy's shocked eyes and smiled as he pulled the rapier free. "I'll see you in hell," he promised, wondering why it was suddenly so difficult to breathe. The pain hit him like a tidal wave, so many burning brands that he could not separate them. He tried to thrust again and a second volley thundered.

His arm would not obey him and the point of the sword dropped to the ground. The blood gracing the end of the blade filled him with a savage joy. Catherine's voice was crying his name, choking on sobs, and he wanted to tell her not to cry, that with his Bess gone this end was a mercy to him. He wanted to thank her for all she had done for them, and tell her to remember them. But words were beyond him and he sank to his knees in the dirt.

The road was cold and hard under him as he tumbled onto his side, struggling to breathe, struggling to remember that there was a world beyond the agony that clawed at him as he slowly rolled onto his back. Through the rushing in his ears he heard a voice calling him, it was deep and tinged with panic and the world began to blur and darken around him as the pain started to fade away.

A shadow fell across his face and he pushed himself away from the safety and peace that called to him, fighting back through the waves of pain to open his eyes. George Quincy was leaning down in front of him, his hand clutching the wound in his side. He dropped heavily to his knees and leaned his face close to Daniel's, his expression a picture of hatred. "Did you think I would let you leave with her?" he hissed. He reached to Daniel's neck and his fingers dipped past the blood soaked lace under the highwayman's chin. He pulled his fingers back out and gave a sudden yank, and when he lifted his hand Bess' locket was dangling from his fist. Just for a moment there was anguish on Quincy's face, and frustrated longing.

He dangled the locket in front of Daniel's eyes, cold hatred once again in control. "You swore to return this to her, but you never will. You will never be near her again." He turned his face away and Daniel could barely hear the words he spoke to the British soldiers. "I would suggest you just put him with the rest."

The locket spun on its delicate chain, the silver glittering in the sunlight and reproaching Daniel for promises he had not kept. _Oh Bess…I'm so sorry…I swear to you, I will make him pay._ His eyes drifted closed and he let himself fall, the pain leaching out of him with the blood that soaked the ground around him.

A voice called him. A deep voice, a hand on his shoulder, but he could not answer. His chest rose quickly one last time, and then became still.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Dean waved a hand in front of Sam's face but Sam remained standing rigidly, staring off down the road.

"C'mon Sammy, this is getting old now. Did you hear me Sam? Snap out of it!" Dean knew he sounded angry, he couldn't help it. He wasn't mad at Sam, not really. It wasn't the kid's fault that he was determined to give his brother gray hair and an ulcer as he sent him to an early grave.

Something clenched in Dean's chest when he saw a tear making its way down his brother's face. Sam's expression was still blank as he lived through whatever was going on inside of his head, but the tear…that wasn't a good sign. He kidded his brother about being emo boy, but the truth was that Sam often hid his emotions even better than Dean. "Hey…hey…c'mon Sam…"

The annoyance that was such a convenient mask for Dean's fear slipped completely when Sam suddenly sagged to his knees. Dean wrapped an arm around Sam's waist as soon as he realized his brother was going down, but the almost dead weight was too much to support without having had a chance to brace himself. Dean fell to his knees next to Sam, his heart hammering in his chest.

Sam's expression hadn't changed, his eyes were still open and staring at nothing. Dean began to lightly tap his cheek. "What's going on Sam? Just tell Reilly to back off. Enough is enough." He didn't know…he just didn't have any way of knowing just what all this psychic crap was doing to his brother, if it was causing some kind of physical damage. The way Sam's nose had bled with Ellicott, the pain from the visions…Christ, for all he knew Sam could be stroking out right now.

In a macabre case of good timing Sam went completely limp just as that thought entered Dean's mind. "Sam? Sammy?!" Dean kept his arm wrapped around Sam and lowered him gently to the ground, putting a hand under Sam's head to ease it onto the pavement. A stabbing pain flared across Dean's shoulder, warning that he was dangerously close to losing the use of his left arm. "Not now…c'mon…not now…" Sam's eyes had slipped closed and his chest seemed to be rising and falling irregularly, as though Sam was having trouble breathing.

"Sammy?! Open your eyes Sam! Whatever it is, you're not there, you're here with me, and you're fine! So just let it go! I'm gonna kick your ass for scaring me if you don't open your eyes!"

Sam's eyelids began to flutter and it was as though a switch had been flipped. Suddenly his brother's face was alive with expression. And Dean began to wonder if the blank stare hadn't been better. Sam's face twisted, agony in every line. "Are you hurt? What happened? Tell me what hurts!" Words spoken often when they were children, when Sam had been ill and Dean was trying to figure out what type of medicine to give to him. The words were inadequate now, but they were all he had. He ran his hands over Sam's body, but could see no sign of a new injury.

Short panting breaths misted the air in front of Sam's face as the temperature dropped even more. Dean blinked his eyes when Sam's face blurred slightly. It took a second for him to realize that the haziness wasn't a result of his own fast approaching panic, but rather a thin layer of mist that had crept across the ground around them. It slithered across Sam like a living blanket and Dean cursed as he climbed quickly into a crouch, ready to grab Sam and pull him away.

He stopped, frozen in place, with his eyes on his brother. Moonlight filtering through the branches lit the mist that covered Sam, that molded itself to him, and Dean's eyes widened as he sank back to his knees. He had seen enough things in his life to not waste time rubbing at his eyes or thinking it was his imagination. The mist was like a holographic image over his brother, turning him into someone with features and build eerily similar to Sam. Daniel Reilly's face was tortured, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clamped tight as his neck arched, throwing his head back. Dean couldn't be sure if the long low groan came from the apparition or from his brother.

The dark red coat was marred with patches that were so dark they looked black in the moonlight. The lace gathered under his throat was no longer white. A pool of dark liquid grew under him, edging outwards even more quickly than it could soak into the hard packed earth. For just a second there were low murmurs whispering through the night air around him, soft crying, a horse's blown out breath. Dean smelled the gunpowder and the overwhelming stench of spilled blood.

Dean braced his hands on Sam's shoulders, swallowing dryly when he realized his brother was arching in pain, much like the 'projected' image. "Sam! Snap out of it!" He fixed his eyes on the highwayman's countenance, so similar to his brother's that he wanted to cup his pale cheek, offer him comfort. He kept his hands on his brother's shoulders, warm and solid under his touch.

"Daniel, let him go, man! All he's done is to try and help you and Bess, and you're hurting him!"

The figure settled back to the dirt, muscles lax. "Sammy? C'mon bro." He could hear the panic in his own voice, but hell, if thinking his big brother was losing it was enough to get Sam back to him, then he had no problem playing the damsel in distress. Daniel's eyes blinked lazily open and fixed on something that Dean couldn't see. Dean tried to look through the haze, but in the moonlight he just couldn't tell if Sam's eyes were also open. This time Dean did reach out an unsteady hand to cup a cheek, tilting Sam's face towards him, hoping to see Sam's eyes on him.

Daniel's eyes never shifted to Dean's face, so enraptured with its visions of the past that he seemed unaware of Dean's presence. The lines on Daniel's face shifted slightly, the pain edging into a look of pure loathing before the spirit's eyes slowly closed and his features eased. The mist faded away and left Dean with his brother lying on the blacktop in front of him.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Richard Quincy stood completely still as Dean climbed out of the Impala. The paleness of Quincy's face was hidden in the shadows and his dark clothing blended nicely with the surroundings. He was far enough from the parked car to know that Dean would not be able to pick him out from the rest of the shadows unless some movement gave him away. And so he stood perfectly still and just watched.

His eyes narrowed with interest when Dean opened the trunk, wondering what goodies the feds had stashed in there. He didn't know where the other one was. Sam. A shiver ran down Richard's spine at the thought of the tall young man but he forced himself to stay calm.

He knew Dean wouldn't just hang by the car forever, but he was still surprised when Dean moved away from the side of the Impala a couple of minutes later. The fed headed purposefully towards the road, shaking his head. Richard gave him a minute and then began to edge slowly forward, trying to get an angle to see into the road without stepping out into the open. Each step was deliberately placed, his feet pushing quietly through the leaves and feeling for any sticks that might crack under him before he let his weight come down.

Impatience and panic were for amateurs, and Richard hadn't amassed the kind of money he had at his disposal by being an amateur. He took his time and was confident that when he could finally see both men in the road they had heard nothing. They were standing close together, and seemed to be talking about something, Dean's hand on the taller man's shoulder as though to make a point. Once they moved off he would check out the Impala.

Richard took a step back in surprise when Sam fell to his knees, taking Dean with him. He was lucky that his startled reaction hadn't betrayed him with a snapping twig, and he ignored the curiosity that had him wanting to watch. Now, while they were distracted, was the time to check out the car. If Sam was injured they might be back at the Impala sooner rather than later.

He crossed rapidly to the back of the car, his eyes fixed on the two men and his heart pounding with the fear that one of them would turn their head and see him. The classic's trunk was large. Not quite as cavernous as he expected, but still big. He leaned into it, rapidly feeling the objects inside and then discarding them. These feds carried 'undercover' to a whole new level. A bag of laundry, chips, a half filled bottle of Jack? Where was the weapons rack with a mounted shotgun or an assault rifle or something? Or at least a bullet proof vest. He didn't doubt the two men on the road were armed.

His fingers ran over a long length of metal and his breath caught as fear bloomed in his belly. He'd recognize it anywhere. Finding Reilly's sword in their trunk was the kind of coincidence that fed his nightmares. The kind of coincidence that he couldn't waste time thinking about, except for the irony of it being the only weapon he had found so far. Maybe inside the car.

The driver's door had squeaked pitifully when Dean opened it, and Richard held his breath as he eased it open, millimeter by millimeter, his eyes fixed on the road. He let out a relieved breath when Sam went the rest of the way down and Dean began to hover over him, his movements jerky with worry. He didn't think Dean would notice a tractor trailer barreling towards him at the moment, but he didn't want to test his theory. He finally had the door open wide enough to slip inside and his hands immediately went to the ignition. Didn't cops usually leave their keys dangling there when they were on a call?

He wasn't surprised when the keys weren't there and he swiftly moved his hands, checking the sun visor, dashboard, glove box, bench seat…he even leaned over and ran his hands under the seat. If he couldn't find the keys a spare gun would do just fine. He sighed in frustration when he sat up, empty handed.

Karma…fate…whatever it was, it was a bitch. He eased himself back out of the car and crossed back to the trunk. The sword was cold in his hand as he slipped it free from the cloth around it. It made his skin crawl every time he touched it, but that hadn't stopped him from practicing with it in the past. When he was a teenager and had found it tucked away in a closet, along with the carefully preserved journal, he had decided it would come out of hiding once the inn was his. His parents might have been ashamed of what the sword symbolized, but Richard had no problem displaying it. His ancestor had done whatever he had to do to come out on top, and Richard admired that. The sword was a warning too. It had drawn Quincy blood before, and the wound it inflicted had caused George Quincy pain and health problems for the rest of his life.

Richard stepped away from the car and moved to the side of the dirt road where the shadows were deepest. He stalked quietly towards the blacktop, the sword's tip pointed to the ground in front of him. This was insane. If he thought he had a chance to make it out of the other side of the woods on foot he would just go for it. His eyes ran over the long figure on the ground and he stopped dead at the edge of the trees, paralyzed by the realization that a hand stronger than his own had pushed him to be in this spot, at this time.

It wasn't just the fed on the ground in front of him. The mist shrouding the still form showed the other's presence. He'd heard the stories, seen the portrait, read the journal. He knew who he was seeing. The fate of Daniel Reilly and the other men had been a weight around the Quincy family's neck for generations. A dirty little secret that overshadowed the pride they should have had in their heritage. The man had been a damn thief, a cuckold who stole away another's woman, and yet he was the one who became a hero of folktales.

It was some type of cosmic justice to be standing on the side of the road with the man's own sword in his hand. Surely this weapon, above all else, should be able to banish this spirit and his memory. He would finish what his ancestor had started.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

"Sam? Okay, c'mon, it's all over. Time to wake up." Dean's thumb stroked over Sam's cheekbone trying to gently wake him. God alone knew what Sam had just been through. Well…God and Daniel Reilly.

Sam's chest rose raggedly as he took in a deep breath. He released it in a long sigh and then lay still, his chest no longer moving.

"SAMMY?! No no no no no! Don't you dare do this to me! Breathe damn it!" The pulse in Sam's neck fluttered under Dean's fingers. Dean put his hand on Sam's forehead and tilted his head back, making sure Sam's airway was open as he leaned forward to put his cheek above Sam's nose and mouth. He held his own breath, praying to feel the stirring of air that would tell him his brother was breathing, but there was nothing.

Dean went cold, from the inside of his chest and out through every limb. His skin felt too tight, his hands clumsy and useless. He gulped in a quick breath and forced the panic away. He wasn't losing his brother. It just wasn't happening. He kept Sam's head tilted back with the heel of his hand as his fingers reached down to pinch Sam's nostrils shut. He sealed his mouth over Sam's and watched for Sam's chest to rise as he blew a breath in. He lifted his head away to allow the air to escape back out of Sam's lungs and then repeated the process.

"C'mon Sam," he muttered as he slid his fingers back into the crease of Sam's neck. "There are chicks who would pay for me to do that. Breathe Sam." The fear on Dean's face was chased away by shock when the fluttering pulse under his fingers faded to nothing. The shock gave way to an overwhelming anger.

"God damn it Reilly! Bring him back! YOU BRING HIM BACK!! Sam! Don't you do this Sammy!" He thumped his fist in the center of Sam's chest and fell back in surprise when Sam's eyes sprang open and he gasped in a deep breath.

Sam's eyes were wide, confusion evident in the way they were flicking rapidly from side to side, as though he was trying to figure out where he was. Dean quickly leaned forward again and cupped Sam's cheeks in his hands, trying to calm him. He would never admit how much the action was needed for him to help calm himself. Just like he would never admit that his hands were shaking. "Hey! Welcome back. It's okay Sam. Everything's cool." He figured Sam was a little too out of it to bust him for the size of his smile and the moisture in his eyes.

Hazel eyes settled on his face and Sam relaxed, muscles that had been tensing with incipient panic unclenching. He lifted his left arm lazily and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. His voice was hoarse when it came, but was one of the most beautiful things Dean had ever heard.

"Dude…did you just _kiss_ me?"

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** Well, now we know what happened to Daniel Reilly. If you've paid attention to any of my author's notes in this and other stories, you know how much music affects me. The Celtic Women version of 'Danny Boy' was looping when I wrote a good portion of this chapter, especially Daniel's death. I admit I went through a couple of tissues. What can I say? I'm a sentimental geek. LOL At this point I'm hoping the reasons for the enmity between Reilly and the Quincy's both past and present should make sense.

Hope you liked it.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: **Thank you so so much to the people who have reviewed. Your encouragement really does give me the incentive to continue dealing with the computer problems to get this posted.

This chapter picks up exactly where the last one left off. Originally I was going to include the first couple of paragraphs of this chapter as the ending of chap 18, it would have been a more natural break in the action. But I was afraid of violence if I left it on the cliffhanger. LOL

Surplus--there's a small bit in here that was added for you.

**Warnings**: They're still cursing.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 18:

_It wasn't just the fed on the ground in front of him. The mist shrouding the still form showed the other's presence. He'd heard the stories, seen the portrait, read the journal. He knew who he was seeing. The fate of Daniel Reilly and the other men had been a weight around the Quincy family's neck for generations. A dirty little secret that overshadowed the pride they should have had in their heritage. The man had been a damn thief, a cuckold who stole away another's woman, and yet he was the one who became a hero of folktales._

_It was some type of cosmic justice to be standing on the side of the road with the man's own sword in his hand. Surely this weapon, above all else, should be able to banish this spirit and his memory. He would finish what his ancestor had started._

_-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-_

"_God damn it Reilly! Bring him back! YOU BRING HIM BACK!! Sam! Don't you do this Sammy!" He thumped his fist in the center of Sam's chest and fell back in surprise when Sam's eyes sprang open and he gasped in a deep breath…_

…_Hazel eyes settled on his face and Sam relaxed, muscles that had been tensing with incipient panic unclenching. He lifted his left arm lazily and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. His voice was hoarse when it came, but was one of the most beautiful things Dean had ever heard._

"_Dude…did you just kiss me?"_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 19**

The worry pushing down on Dean's shoulders eased with a quick snort of laughter. "In your dreams Sleeping Beauty," he said, moving his hands from Sam's cheeks to his shoulders. "How you feeling, dude? You just scared the hell out of me."

He watched in amusement as Sam's eyes began to dart around, as though he was just figuring out that he was lying in the middle of the road. "What happ—"

Dean's euphoria crashed and burned when Sam's eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder and widened. His words broke off and he gulped in a breath but there was no time for even a quick warning. Dean began to wonder why he carried the damn Beretta if he could never manage to have it out and ready when it was needed.

The tip of the sword was dull in the moonlight, but still deadly as it moved rapidly into Dean's peripheral vision. The point was resting against Sam's neck before Dean could move his arm to block it.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

The rending, tearing, agony in his chest was gone, leaving behind a memory so strong that his chest protested with a deep ache at the mere thought of moving. Which was okay, because the tip of the sword pushing lightly below his Adams apple was pretty good incentive to stay as still as possible.

"One ounce of pressure is all it will take for me to slide this through your partner's neck." A warm drop trickled down the side of Sam's neck, proving the tip was sharp enough to break skin with virtually no pressure. "Be assured, you could not even push it away in time to stop me."

Richard's voice vibrated with tension and Sam looked up into the face of the man standing over him. The calm façade was cracking around the edges, so many emotions flitting across the man's features that Sam couldn't begin to identify all of them. One of them was easy, though. Determination. The man would do what he said.

Dean's hands kept their steady pressure against Sam's shoulders even as Dean's face turned to stone, anger hardening his features.

"All I want is your car keys," Richard continued. "My car seems to be having some difficulties and I'd like to get out of these damn woods." While he talked Richard deliberately placed his foot over Sam's Beretta where it lay on the road next to Sam's hand. "Of course I need to be sure that you won't try to stop me, so Dean, you are going to very carefully move back from Sam and throw your gun to the side of the road." He nodded towards the mouth of the dirt road. "No tricks. I _will_ kill him. I have nothing to lose."

Richard took a half step backwards when Dean started to move, the sword remaining on Sam's neck but trailing lightly down to rest in the hollow of his throat. The foot on Sam's gun remained stationary and Sam took advantage of the staring contest that was developing between the two other men to edge his hand closer to the gun, not stopping until the tips of his fingers rested on the cold metal.

Dean pushed himself into a crouch as he moved backwards. He stopped when he was a couple of feet away and lifted his right hand to show it was empty. He slowly moved his arm, reaching his hand around the edge of his jacket. Richard shifted forward, the sword poised deliberately over Sam's neck, and Dean paused for just a second, his entire body tensing at Richard's movement. He cast a quick glance at Sam, a silent apology as he carefully pulled his gun from the waist of his pants. His mouth flattened to an angry line as he tossed it to the spot Richard had demanded.

Richard nodded with satisfaction before his foot started to slowly edge Sam's gun away from his hand. Sam's attempt to snag it, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the metal, ended abruptly when Richard looked down at him with an amused smile and pressed ever so lightly with the sword. There was a slight sting and then the feeling of moisture near the tip. A soft growl drew Sam's eyes to his brother. Dean looked almost feral, capable of tearing Quincy apart with his bare hands.

Richard slowly leaned down, grabbing Sam's gun with his left hand while the sword remained steady against Sam's neck. When he straightened up his posture was more relaxed and he looked down at Sam's face, his expression unreadable. "I didn't see it at first," he said softly. "Not when I first saw you at breakfast. Not until I saw you standing in the barn. Saw your size. The resemblance…" Richard shook his head. "What is Reilly to you? A long lost ancestor?" Richard's features began to twist, turn ugly. The hatred on his face echoed the look that George Quincy had given to Daniel. "Did he sire some bastard with another woman at the same time he was screwing the Benjamin whore?"

Energy began to build in the air. There were no visible manifestations this time, but the rage growing in the night around him was frigid against Sam's skin. Richard's face paled and then turned beet red, his eyes narrowing. "My family could have been so much more…had so much more…if they hadn't been so ashamed of the skeletons in their closet. George Quincy would have had the Benjamin, he wouldn't have had to work with the British if not for you."

Sam's eyes opened wide at the choice of pronoun. Richard seemed to have surprised himself, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly a couple of times, fear chasing over his face. He shook his head and the fear faded away, replaced by a cold smile. "I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. I know what I just saw on this road." He leaned over so that his eyes were boring straight down into Sam's. "Daniel Reilly is here. You're carrying him around inside of you."

The hair on Sam's arms stood on end. His released breath was a puff of white mist as any remaining heat was sucked out of the air around him. The tip of the sword pressed a little more heavily against Sam's skin and Sam felt the tickle of blood beginning to slowly pool in the hollow of his throat as Richard spoke in a whisper, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer. "It's time for the damn Highwayman to go to hell."

Sam wasn't sure if it was his brother or the air itself that roared as Richard's arm tensed and he prepared to shove the sword down. The weapon had a mind of its own, lifting up and away from Sam's throat. Richard's mouth opened in astonishment when unseen hands wrenched the sword out of his grasp. It landed in the dirt on the other side of Dean even as Dean was launching himself across Sam's body. He tackled Richard to the ground, his right hand clamping down on Richard's left wrist as Richard tried to swing Sam's Beretta up.

Sam's pulse hammered in his ears. He seemed incapable of making himself move as tremors rolled through him. One of Dean's feet kicked into his side as Dean struggled with Richard, and the painful nudge broke the younger hunter out of his shock. He rolled away from the two men and ended in a crouch, the sword somehow in his right hand. He didn't even remember picking it up, but it fit in his hand as though it was meant to be there, the balance and weight familiar and comfortable.

Dean's grunt of pain brought Sam to his feet. His brother was clutching his left shoulder, his left arm unmoving against his side as Richard scrambled out from underneath him. Sam's gun had been knocked to the ground a few feet beyond them and Richard dove for it. Sam danced forward as Quincy's hand closed on the metal, the sword lifted in front of him. Richard swiveled as he rose to his feet, turning the gun purposefully in Sam's direction.

Sam's movements were fluid and graceful, filled with a deadly confidence that Sam knew wasn't his. The blade cut a graceful arc through the air. Throwing off the dullness that had cloaked it in Richard's hands, it fairly gleamed in the moonlight. The flat of the blade smacked sharply against the back of Richard's hand and he dropped the gun with a startled gasp. Sam flicked his arm and the blade rose swiftly through the air to Quincy's right when the man turned to escape in that direction. Quincy threw himself backwards, trying to evade the weapon. He landed on his back on the road and immediately rolled over, pulling his legs under him to take off towards the trees.

The sword slashed through the air in front of him before he could take his first step and he pulled himself up short. Sam found himself transitioning from the effortless leap that had brought him to Richard's side into a smooth twirl that placed him in front of the man. His arm moved independently, reversing the sword's downward slash into a smooth curl upwards until the blade was resting against the side of Quincy's neck.

Even as he thrilled at the feel of the effortless movements, a curl of fear began to unwind in Sam's stomach. This wasn't him. He could handle a blade efficiently, but his training had concentrated on the down and dirty. Not on swordplay that was so graceful it looked like a dance. He pushed the fear down. It kind of felt like looking a gift horse in the mouth to bitch about Reilly's help after he had just saved their butts.

"What was it you said a second ago?" Sam questioned coldly "about not being able to push the blade away quickly enough to stop me from killing you?" Richard's throat worked against the blade as he swallowed nervously and Sam nodded his head in satisfaction. "Dean? Can you get to one of the guns?" he called without taking his eyes off of Quincy.

"Yeah…yeah…just hold him there a second."

Sam was familiar enough with Dean's voice to know when his brother was talking through teeth that were clenched in pain and a slow burn began in his chest as his anger built. It stoked higher with each of Dean's muttered curses and his hand tightened around the wire wrapped hilt.

"Okay, dude, I got it. You can stop Errol Flynning him."

The blade felt good in Sam's hands. It felt right. He trailed the point around until it was resting against the front of Richard's throat and the man's eyes widened in fear.

"Dude? Did you hear me? Sam?"

The man in front of him had caused so much pain. His greed had caused death. He should not be able to walk away from that. A drop of blood formed around the tip of the sword.

"Sam, I said I've got the gun, you can back off with the pig sticker."

Quincy had profited from the deaths of good men. Sold them out, sold their cause out, to the British. The rage in Sam's chest became tinged with sorrow. This man had caused Bess' death. His laughing, gentle, Bess, who had never hurt anyone and had treated the man with kindness even though she did not return his affection.

"SAMMY!"

Dean's voice was like a bucket of cold water in his face and he rushed back into himself with a small gasp. The sword was centered on Richard's neck, and Sam could feel the tension in his arm muscles. He had been about to shove it forward. Quincy's eyes were filled with terror, leaking tears. His hands were wrapped around the blade as though trying to hold it off, and frightened gasps were escaping from him. The knowledge of what he had almost done slammed into Sam and he pulled the sword away. He dropped it to the ground as though its touch was burning him, and stumbled backwards. His stomach clenched and for a second he feared he might start retching.

Dean was instantly by his side, the gun trained on Quincy. The older hunter kept his left arm tight against his ribs, but he crowded his shoulder against Sam, showing support the only way he could. "It's okay, Sam. You didn't do anything. We've got this bastard and we'll leave him wrapped up nice and pretty and put a call in to the feds. Or how about we drop a dime to that mob guy Chauncey told us about and tell him where to pick up his trash?" Dean stilled and his head tilted slightly as though he was listening to something. "Damn."

The last vestiges of the past were pushed out of Sam's system by the sound that had caught Dean's attention. It was very much a part of this century. A noisy motor was headed their way, it's muffler in definite need of repairs. Along with other parts of the vehicle if the loud clanks and squeaks were any indication. The sound was faint in the cold night, but definitely getting closer.

"Quincy, get your ass over here," Dean growled as he herded Sam backwards, into the mouth of the dirt road.

The Benjamin's owner seemed frozen in shock. Fury and terror mixed equally on his face and his panting breath was a white mist in front of his face. He gave a visible twitch at Dean's words and then exploded into action, but instead of running for the trees on the opposite side of the road he leaned over and scooped the sword up from the ground.

Mist floated through the air around him, wisps with no substance or form, and Richard slashed the sword through them ineffectually. He stumbled backwards, towards the shoulder of the road opposite the brothers, his mouth moving soundlessly as the sword's movements became jerky and panicked.

The blade stilled and moonlight coming through a gap over the strange scene glinted off of it in small flashes of silver. Richard's arm's stretched out in from of him as his hands tried desperately to hold onto the hilt, but it slipped from his fingers as the point of the sword arced through the air until it was pointed at his chest. Richard wrapped his hands around the blade, like he had when Sam was holding it.

Dread washed through Sam when the man began whimpering in fear, his hands so tight on the blade that his knuckles were white. His arms were trembling with the strain, but the sword's tip continued to edge towards his chest. His voice was nothing but a choked whisper, almost drowned out by the vehicle approaching from around the bend. "Help me."

"Oh Christ, no." Sam dodged around his brother, heading for the tableau staged in front of them. If he could get his hands on the sword…maybe…

He made it no further than five feet before he was flying through the air, an unseen force throwing him backwards. Sam landed on his back on the dirt road and lay there stunned for a second as his brother ran towards him. A shudder coursed through him at the thought that the force against him had felt like hands. Many sets of hands, cold from the grave. Dean dropped to his knees next to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He sat up, relieved everything was in working order. It was definitely better than his usual landing spot against walls and furniture. He pushed himself into a crouch, ready to try again. "Get the shotgun," he ground out. They would need the salt load to dispel the spirit. Dean's hand on his arm stopped him as he started to push forward.

Quincy was illuminated by the headlights as the car came slowly around the curve. His hands were still wrapped around the blade, his arms extended straight out in front of him. The tip hovered in the air a foot or so in front of his chest. His eyes were dark hollows, blown wide with fear and his mouth moved in silent pleading.

The blast of the car's horn split the air and Richard's head jerked up. The sword seemed to welcome the distraction…or possibly the audience…and moved forward with a sudden jerk. The sharp tip slid smoothly into Richard's abdomen directly below his ribcage, gliding easily through his flesh until Richard's own hands, still wrapped around the blade, hit the front of his body. He fell to his knees, the back of his expensive suede jacket tented out grotesquely over the protruding weapon.

The car's driver seemed to have his hand permanently affixed to the horn. Its din drowned out all other sounds in the night as the car slowed to a crawl and carefully drove past the man on the side of the road. Dean pulled Sam farther back into the shadows, but Sam doubted the man and woman in the car would have seen them if they were standing in the middle of the road outlined in neon. Their eyes were fixed on Richard as he collapsed onto his side, their heads swiveling to keep him in sight as they passed. They floored the accelerator as soon as they were clear of the macabre display, their old Buick actually reaching a respectable speed as they fled down the dark road.

"We've got to get out of here. They're probably on the phone with the cops right now." Sam was grateful that Dean didn't seem to expect a reply. He didn't trust his voice. They crossed to Richard as soon as the Buick's taillights disappeared around a slight curve. Dean crouched next to Quincy's still form and pushed a finger into his neck for a few seconds before shaking his head. He looked from the sword to his brother and raised his eyebrows. "Do you think the sword is what's holding him here? Do we have to take it?"

Sam shook his head. "It's not the sword. The sword might be important to Reilly, but I don't think Bess is connected to it."

"Good, because I don't want to move it. There were witnesses to his suicide. If the sword's gone the police are going to look a lot closer."

Sam watched silently while Dean wiped off the sword's hilt and lifted Richard's hand to wrap it around the newly cleaned metal. He was grateful that even with his left arm out of commission, Dean moved swiftly. Sam wasn't eager to get any closer to Richard's body to help. The terror burned into every line of the dead man's face felt like a silent accusation and he shuddered at the thought that this had almost happened while his hand was still on the sword.

If he was honest with himself, Sam knew that wasn't why he was shying away from touching the dead man. He was afraid that if he had to handle the body he wouldn't be able to keep a smirk off of his face. Satisfaction over Quincy's death oozed through the air around them. This wasn't over yet.

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Sam eased the Impala back into the same parking spot they had vacated just a short time before. Orange light still filled the night behind the inn and a thick column of smoke billowed into the sky. Hopefully no one had even noticed the Impala's brief absence. They had no choice but to come back to the inn. If anyone had noticed—and mentioned to the police—their talking to Gary in the tavern, it would look too suspicious if they were gone when Gary's body was identified. Just disappearing from the area wasn't an option, they still had a job to do.

Every muscle in Sam's body ached, and he could only imagine how painful Dean's shoulder was. His brother had popped a prescription muscle relaxant as soon as he got into the car and confined himself to monosyllabic grunts when Sam asked how he felt. Sam rubbed his hand over his face and sighed tiredly. "How'd we let this get so screwed up?"

Dean scowled, pushing himself to sit up straight on the car seat. "You're not going to start stressing about what happened back there, are you? You forgetting he was ready to turn you into a shish kebob?"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said turning towards his brother. "But dude…the body count started piling up after we got here, and we still haven't figured out how to release Bess and Daniel."

A slight eye roll made it clear what Dean thought about Sam's notion that they were 'releasing' the spirits. "You're sure that wasn't it, huh? That wanting to get rid of Quincy wasn't the only thing holding them here?"

"No," Sam said quietly, looking down into his lap. "There's something else. I could still feel traces of him out there. He was pretty damn happy about how things turned out."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched upwards. "It was kind of cool." He ignored Sam's shocked expression and began to smirk as he pushed his door open. "Talk about karma biting you on the ass…"

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

Sam eased the door of Dean's room open and quietly stepped inside, being careful not to smudge the half circle of salt protecting the doorway. They weren't taking chances, even if the room wasn't in the original section of the building. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on the armchair as he moved across the floor, trying to step even more lightly when Dean began to stir in the bed. He closed the bathroom door behind him and stood leaning his weight against the solid wood for a few moments. It had been an extremely long night and exhaustion was a solid weight pushing down on ever square inch of him. A quick shower and then Sam was going to do his best to get at least a couple of hours of sleep in the armchair.

They had come directly to the room when they returned to the inn and Dean had helped Sam clean the blood from his back before slapping a temporary bandage over the bullet crease on his shoulder. The blood and soot washed from his face, a new shirt, and a jacket without bullet holes, and Sam was ready to wander down to the back of the inn while Dean took a shower and got some sleep.

Sam had helped Bob set up a folding table with a coffee urn, water, and snacks on the patio outside of the tavern, filling him in on the events in Robbers Woods as they worked. When two detectives had shown up to talk to Bob about Richard's strange death and the fire, Sam had moved off to join the other tavern patrons as they watched the back half of the barn collapse in on itself.

Activities around the gutted shell came to halt not long after the last of the visible flame was extinguished. Grateful firefighters gathered around the coffee had explained that investigators needed to see as many things in their original positions as possible before the ME removed the body that had been found near the front of the barn. With the indications of arson that they had already seen…the investigation was going to take a while before 'overhaul' could be started by the firefighters. Sam and Bob had exchanged a look at the mention of 'the body'. The firefighters doing overhaul were in for a nasty surprise when they moved the downed shelves.

The ME's office would probably be in shock over the sudden influx of five victims of violent death in one night. It was only a matter of time before the names of some of the victims started setting off bells in federal databases. Legitimate federal investigators would start arriving before long. He and Dean needed to figure out how to finish this job and be long gone before that happened.

Clouds of steam followed Sam out of the bathroom when he was done. The extra long hot shower had helped to ease some of his aches even as it stung the furrow on the back of his shoulder. He was surprised to find Dean sitting in the armchair when he came out, the journal open in his lap. His brother was already dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, his left arm back in the sling. "Dude, I thought you melted in there or something. Sit down and I'll re-bandage your back for you." Dean picked up a mug of coffee from the side table next to him and sipped it with a contented smile.

Just the smell of the fresh brew turned Sam's stomach. He wasn't sure how many cups he had downed throughout the night, but he was beyond the point where caffeine could do anything for him. He rubbed a towel over his dripping hair and eyed the mug with a grimace. "Where'd you get that?"

"Dining room. They're going to be setting some breakfast out soon if you're hungry." His eyebrows went up when Sam collapsed onto the edge of the bed, sagging so spectacularly he was kind of surprised he didn't slide all the way down to the floor. "Or maybe you should sleep and I'll go eat," Dean amended. "Why didn't you come up sooner?"

"Police were in and out all night, I wanted to make sure nothing pointed them in our direction," Sam replied wearily. He pointed at the journal in Dean's lap. "You come up with anything yet?"

"Nah, I just started going through it." Dean shook his head. "We don't know if whatever is keeping them here is going to be something Catherine even knew about." He closed the journal and set it gently on the table next to his mug. "Where'd you put the first aid kit? Let's get your back taken care of and then you can sleep." Dean rose to his feet, his eyes on Sam. "Dude? First aid kit? Earth to Sam. You already asleep or something?"

Chills coursed through Sam's body and his mouth went dry as his eyes fixed on the bottom edge of the journal. He managed to force words past lips that didn't want to move. "Let me see…give me the journal. Please, Dean, hand me the journal."

Dean's eyebrows lowered suspiciously as he looked back and forth between Sam and the old leather bound pages. "You sure?" he asked quietly. "You're really you, right?"

Sam just nodded, holding his hand out silently.

"Yeah, that's real convincing," Dean muttered. His mouth settled into a worried scowl, but he picked up the book and handed it to Sam.

The leather felt warm in Sam's hands and he took in a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering sigh. He just looked at the object in his hands for a second, his eyes filling with tears before he lowered it to his lap and carefully opened it to the page marked by the old bookmark that extended past the bottom edge of the binding. "I didn't see this before," he said softly. The tip of his finger ran gently over the piece of ribbon lying in the crease between the pages and his stomach hurt with a sudden stab of sorrow.

The ribbon was tucked between a page describing a sun dappled picnic with Bess and Daniel, the depth of their love and happiness shining through in every word, and another page filled with the unending horror of the missing men. Tucked between the light and the dark that had filled their world. It was not meant as a page marker, but rather had been hidden away in a spot where its symbolism would be the strongest to people who knew what they were looking at. It could have been placed in the pages that described Bess' sacrifice to save Daniel, but that would not have done justice to the hope and spirit of the lovers' relationship.

He gently worked the ribbon loose from the spot where it had probably been nestled for over two centuries and was almost surprised when it didn't disintegrate in his hands. It was discolored with age, but its original ruby red color was still visible in spots. Sam's breath hitched and he closed his eyes, seeing the ribbon wound in an intricate love knot through waves of raven black hair. He clenched his jaw, willing the tears not to fall. He opened his eyes, blinking at the moisture on his lashes, and lifted the ribbon in front of his face. Loops of silken thread had been used to affix a small tarnished trinket to its end. The locket danced on the bottom of the ribbon held in Sam's trembling hand, and even through the dark of age, it sparkled to his eyes.

He cleared his throat but his voice was still thick when he spoke. "I think it's time for Daniel to keep his promise."

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**A/N** I hope to have the conclusion posted within a couple of days. I've got a big drill at the academy tonight though (translation—looooong drill) and we've got to get ready for my daughter's graduation on Thursday. But I want this puppy done.

Just a reminder about the SFTCOL(AR)S first annual LimpSam awards. Like I said at the beginning of chap 18, there are categories for fics, graphics, and vids. We love both brothers—c'mon, the magic of the show is their relationship—but Dean already has such a huge cadre of devoted and passionate 'Dean' fans, so the board is just trying to give lil bro a boost and promote the wonder that is Sammy. But we're definitely 'bi-bro', so there are categories that are Dean heavy also.

If you go to the SFTCOL(AR)S forum, the "Limp!Sam Awards" category is in the **Asylum** section. For some reason I couldn't get the link to post correctly at the start of Chap 18, but if you need it I posted it in my profile.

Nominations are being taken in June, but the top nominees will be posted on the board in July. You should definitely check it out to find stories, graphics, and vids that may have somehow passed you by. What a great way to ease ourselves through summer hiatus!


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Once again, thank you so so much to the people who have reviewed. I've been extremely busy over the last couple of days and wanted to finish this chapter, but I will be replying to your reviews. Your kind words give me the energy to wrestle a recalcitrant computer.

**Warnings**: Cursing. Now there's a surprise. And I of course consider anything from season 1 up to and including Provenance as fair game.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. The incredible fun of playing with them is the only profit I receive from the story. Well, that and all the great people I've met in the fandom.

From Chapter 19:

_He gently worked the ribbon loose from the spot where it had probably been nestled for over two centuries and was almost surprised when it didn't disintegrate in his hands. It was discolored with age, but its original ruby red color was still visible in spots. Sam's breath hitched and he closed his eyes, seeing the ribbon wound in an intricate love knot through waves of raven black hair. He clenched his jaw, willing the tears not to fall. He opened his eyes, blinking at the moisture on his lashes, and lifted the ribbon in front of his face. Loops of silken thread had been used to affix a small tarnished trinket to its end. The locket danced on the bottom of the ribbon held in Sam's trembling hand, and even through the dark of age, it sparkled to his eyes._

_He cleared his throat but his voice was still thick when he spoke. "I think it's time for Daniel to keep his promise."_

-SN-SN-SN-SN-SN-

**The Highwayman Chapter 20**

The tender slices of turkey on a crusty roll would have been gone in minutes on a normal day. As it was, Sam had to force himself to finish even half of it. The editor of the local newspaper had dropped off an advance copy of the afternoon's special edition as a favor and it sat on the table at Sam's elbow. Screaming headlines seemed to take up the top half of the front page. "BIZARRE SUICIDE" was followed by a second headline in smaller print: "Fatal Fire and Dramatic Crash Linked to Prominent Businessman's Death". Richard Quincy had been well known in the area and the circumstances surrounding his death had all the earmarks of a sensational story. The local reporters were surprisingly talented. They'd already started to dig out an impressive amount of background, from mob ties and land deals, to ghost sightings, to arson and murder. The icing was the suicide—by antique sword—witnessed by a local preacher and his wife. The local paper had the scoop with its special edition but vultures from more prominent media outlets could be expected to descend now that the local rag had hit the streets and the story was starting to spread. The feds would probably be right on their heels.

Sam's attempt to read the journal after he found Bess' ribbon and locket tucked inside had been firmly vetoed by his brother. Dean had a valid point about Sam's exhaustion being a dangerous liability when the spirits were still in residence…but Sam suspected it had more to do with the fact that exhaustion had stripped away the protective cover Sam usually clamped over his emotions. He'd give Dean the benefit of the doubt and assume his brother was just trying to spare him some pain. The reality was probably more along the lines that Dean shuddered at the thought of having to deal with an oversized little brother blubbering on the bed.

Whatever Dean's motives, Sam had been too tired to argue. He ended up sleeping until almost dinnertime while Dean read through the journal to fill in some of the blanks. Although Sam doubted his claims that he had also spent time doing research in the inn's library. When Dean had returned to the room to wake Sam, the imprint of the material covering the library's couch was easy to see on the side of Dean's face. And research didn't usually cause a mild case of bedhead.

Dean had accomplished what Sam considered the most difficult task not long after Sam fell asleep. The brothers had agreed that Dean would tell Bob the truth about who they were and what they did while Sam slept and the two men ate breakfast together. A string of local investigators would be showing up by late morning, and things could get sticky if Bob mentioned them. And eventually the feds would arrive.

The way Dean related the events back to Sam, Bob hadn't been at all surprised. He'd already decided they weren't telling him the true story. Even slightly foggy after his own nap, Bob had done a good job keeping the brothers out of it when the detectives and arson investigators had arrived around lunchtime. Dean had waited until the last of the official figures had left before waking Sam. He'd gotten Sam settled in the breakfast room with a sandwich in front of him and then managed to disappear somewhere while Sam was picking at it.

Sam stood from the table with a groan and walked his plate into the kitchen. The sleep had put a dent in his exhaustion, but it had also given him a chance to stiffen up and he was feeling every bruise and scrape he had managed to accumulate over the past couple of days. The doors to the tavern were closed when he came out of the breakfast room and he turned towards the front room when he heard his brother's voice drifting down the hallway.

"Just like that…no…now you made it crooked! Go back to the left."

He was greeted by a truly strange sight when he reached the end of the hall. Dean was leaning back on the couch in front of one of the fireplaces, a look of serious concentration on his face. "A little more…Perfect! Dude, we are good."

Bob climbed off of the stepladder arranged in front of the dark hearth and rushed over to stand behind Dean's couch. He turned to look at the fireplace and a wide smile split his face. Dean held his right hand over his head, palm up, and Bob slapped down on it in a cockeyed 'high five'. "Dino, you do realize we're bonding over interior decorating, don't you?" Bob stage whispered. His smile became brighter when he saw Sam in the mouth of the hallway. He waved his hand enthusiastically, gesturing for Sam to come stand beside him.

"Well?" he asked excitedly when Sam joined him and turned to examine the painting. Warmth bloomed in Sam's chest at the sight of Daniel Reilly's portrait over the fireplace. Bob's smile turned soft as he watched Sam's face and he placed his hand lightly on Sam's arm. "You really do look like him. George and Martha brought this when they came by a little while ago. Now that you've all filled me in on what really happened back then…well, I'm sorry I ever thought badly of him. And…look!" His hand on Sam's arm tugged gently, turning Sam to face the twin fireplace on the opposite wall. Bess' portrait had been moved out of the library and had a place of equal honor over the other fireplace.

Sam looked away for a second and nodded his head. When he thought he could talk without embarrassing himself he brought his eyes back to Bob's face. Bob's worried frown faded when Sam smiled at him. "How'd you manage to talk them into bringing the painting here? I thought it belonged to the historical society."

Dean had turned sideways on the couch and he reached over the top to nudge Bob. "Go ahead, tell him the rest." Dean watched his brother's face with a small grin.

Bob blushed. "Well, actually, the painting belongs to the Hancocks, not the Society. And they thought this would be a more appropriate place to display it…since they'll be part owners of the inn." He looked up at Sam's raised eyebrows and started to smile as he explained. "There is no will and we've learned there are plans to seize the inn and its contents for back taxes and sell it at auction. George and Martha have the connections to bypass some steps and have already spoken to their attorneys about working things out. It's amazing how much red tape just disappears when you have the money and the connections."

"So they're buying everything? Are you staying on? I know you love it here." The idea of the inn without Bob's presence just seemed wrong to Sam. The small manager loved and respected the rich heritage that infused every square inch of the place. He was truly a fitting guardian of the legends and history that lived within its walls.

Bob's eyes crinkled as his smile grew wide enough to rival one of Sam's. "I said they'd be _part_ owners. I may not have the money to buy the Benjamin myself, but I could certainly handle purchasing a majority share of it with the Hancocks as partners. You're looking at the soon-to-be new owner of all of this." Bob was practically bouncing as he threw his arms wide, the gesture encompassing his beloved inn and everything in it. His smile was a mixture of delighted disbelief and pride, brimming with happiness so contagious that Sam couldn't help himself. He reached forward and wrapped the small man in a bear hug, thumping his back.

"Bob! That's great! I'm really happy for you!"

When he finally released the hug Bob's arms remained wrapped around him, his head tucked under Sam's chin. "Ummm…Bob?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I can't breathe."

"Fair is fair, sweetheart. I haven't been able to breathe since you two got here." Bob took a step back and fanned himself with his hand. "Oh my. I had no idea what you were hiding under those loose shirts. Dino should take you…" Bob's words trailed off as his eyes ran over Dean's clothes and he grimaced. "Someone with some style should take you shopping."

"That's nice coming from a guy who gets his fashion cues from Mister Rogers," Dean grumbled, eyeing Bob's cardigan of the day.

Bob just waved his hand dismissively in Dean's direction. "Window dressing, dear. This is how people want their New England innkeepers to look. Damn Newhart ruined it for us." His face grew serious and he reached out his left hand to clasp Sam's hand while his right hand came to rest on Dean's shoulder. "I want to thank you for all you've done for the Benjamin, and for me." He eyed the bruise and cut on Sam's temple. "I know there's more you're not telling me, and that the two of you were in terrible danger…" he bit his bottom lip and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "Just…thank you. Whenever your travels bring you to this area, you will always have a place to stay for as long as you need it. And if you ever need help, just call."

Dean brought his right hand to the back of his neck and ducked his face out of view. Displays of gratitude left him uncomfortably tongue-tied, unless they came from pretty young women. Sam smiled at the small man and realized he was going to miss him. "That goes both ways. If you ever need us, you just call."

"I hate to break this up, but we've got to finish this and get the hell out of here before the FBI shows up," Dean said. Sam didn't think the hoarseness in his brother's voice was just from the recent smoke exposure.

Bob nodded his head and withdrew his hands after a final squeeze. He walked around to the back of the reception desk and crouched down for a second. When he came back into view he had a small porcelain box in his hand. "I thought this was appropriate to hold it since the Hancocks took the journal to put with the others."

Sam looked at Dean with his eyebrows raised. "They took the journal? Did we get all the info we needed?"

"They wanted to get it into a case before it got damaged. I got a chance to look at most of it, though," Dean said as he pushed himself to his feet.

"And? C'mon dude, what did you find out?" Sam scowled at his brother, impatient for Dean to fill in some gaps.

Dean's grin made it clear he was savoring the experience of being the one who had dug out a couple of juicy details. "First, Catherine thought the bodies were close to the road because of something that was said when Quincy and Reilly had that last go-round out on the road. That's why Richard thought it was safe to start digging a quarter mile in."

Sam nodded his head. That much he had already figured out. He had told Dean the gist of what happened when Reilly was killed, but hadn't given the specifics of the conversation. "Dean, why didn't Catherine rat Quincy out? Why did she marry him? She hated him."

"Part of it was that he forced her to. If he couldn't have Bess and the social mojo that would have given him, then the mayor's daughter would work. The bastard was ambitious. So he threatened to spread it around that she had been 'intimately involved' in Bess' trysts with Reilly. Catherine was the one who set things up for Bess and Reilly to be together. She covered for Bess…she was a regular fairy godmother to the two of them."

"She loved them both," Bob interrupted, nodding his head. "It would have been easy for George Quincy to make it look like she was a participant."

"So? She doesn't strike me as the type who would've caved to that kind of pressure."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude! You're the one who went to college! Think about it! This area was just starting to get away from its Puritan roots. Catherine was a tough broad, she didn't care if it ruined _her_. But that shit would have taken the rest of her family down too. She was protecting them. And she had her own motives for agreeing. Like I said, she was tough. Quincy didn't intimidate her after they were married." Dean began to chuckle. "She made his life a living hell. When the kids were old enough she told them where the family money really came from. Made sure they'd pass it down to their kids. She was alright."

They had been walking towards the tavern as they talked, and Dean stopped in front of the French doors. "One more thing. The night Bess died? Not a big surprise, but Catherine said it was Quincy who overheard Bess and Reilly making plans to get together after he robbed some British courier. Quincy gave the British a heads up about Reilly planning to come back here. After it all went down, and they missed Reilly, it was Quincy's idea to use Catherine. They needed a way to stop Reilly out on a deserted stretch of road. Some way to get him down off of his horse so he'd be an easy target—in a place with no witnesses. So Quincy went to Catherine and told her the British knew Reilly would be back for revenge, and they were waiting to ambush him at the inn. She wasn't exactly fond of Quincy—"

"She thought he was slime," Bob broke in, "but she knew he was in love with Bess and he seemed pretty broken up over her death."

"And she had no reason to think he was working with the British," Dean continued. "He talked a pretty good game about hating them whenever he was in the tavern. That stretch of road? Bess and Reilly used to meet up there. Near that maple sapling. Catherine knew that if she waited somewhere near there, Daniel would stop when he saw her."

Bob gave a short nod of agreement as he broke in again. "It was probably the only spot where Reilly would stop for her. Where she could break through his anger." Bob sighed dramatically. "So tragic."

It was Dean's turn to nod in agreement before he continued. "She had no idea the British were following them. I don't think she ever got over feeling guilty about that."

Bob nudged Dean's side. "Tell him the creepy part."

"It was pure coincidence that the British had buried those other men so close to where Daniel and Bess used to meet. That really creeped Catherine out." Dean looked at Sam with an expectant smile, but it faded slightly when he took in his brother's expression. "Dude, you trying to catch flies?"

Sam snapped his mouth shut. His jaw had literally fallen open in the middle of the Hardy Boys joint recitation. Apparently the two had bonded over a bit more than interior decorating. And he had just never seen Dean so caught up in a story. He eyed his brother suspiciously. "Did I miss an invasion of the pod people while I was sleeping or something?"

"Dude. Shut up." Dean scowled and gave a little shrug. "The journal was a good read. That Catherine was definitely a piece of work." He began to smirk. "You should hear some of the stuff she used to do to Quincy after they were married." He eyed Sam speculatively and his smirk turned evil. "On second thought, I think I'll keep her list of tricks to myself…for now."

A tiny chill worked its way down Sam's spine. He was going to have to make an effort to be nicer to his brother.

Dean's smirk faded and he gave Sam a steady look. "Are we ready to do this?" He seemed satisfied with Sam's slow nod and pulled the French doors open.

It was dark in the old tavern, the only light a dancing orange glow coming from the flames crackling in the fireplace. Bob reached over and flipped a switch, turning on a set of small spotlights above the bar. The reflected glow combined with the firelight made the rest of the room feel welcoming and cozy. Sam ran his hand across a wood beam as he passed by it, wondering if Catherine…Bess…Daniel, had ever touched that same spot, experienced the same sense of comfort in the feel of the smooth and solid wood that would remain strong and stable for centuries. Soft murmurs of sound, the clank of pewter and creak of wooden chairs, seemed to hover just out of the range of their hearing. As though the sounds had filled the room before they opened the door, and would fill it again after they left.

"We're keeping the tavern closed for at least a week or two. Until things can be a little more settled legally," Bob said quietly as he crossed to the fireplace. He poked at the logs with a large iron poker before adding another. The soft light on his face caught his small smile, the contentment in his expression making Sam truly happy that the little man would be the caretaker of this spot's rich history. Bob hung the poker on a small hook above the hearth and turned to them, his expression growing nervous. "So what do we do now?"

Dean had taken the porcelain box from Bob's hands when they entered the tavern, and he placed it gently down on a table near the fireplace. Sam eyes narrowed when looked at the tabletop and saw the shotgun sitting in the middle of it.

"Dean!"

"Sorry, dude." There was no trace of apology in the look his brother gave him. "I'm not taking any chances. I would have been happier doing this at some big bonfire in neutral territory. You insisted we be here, and I'm taking precautions." He gave a small shrug and Sam could see the worry behind the cool demeanor.

He knew some of that worry was that things could go haywire in the tavern. It was a spot where Reilly would have some strength, and he'd already proven his willingness to use violence. But the deeper part of Dean's worry was probably for his little brother's welfare. Sam hadn't exactly handled things too well at Bess' grave. But he was learning to separate his emotions from Daniel's. He wondered how much of his grief over Bess was actually an echo of his grief over Jessica. He'd spent some time thinking things through over the course of the long night. Seeing how an obsession over something that was gone had ruined a life in the present… Bess had been gone for so long that it was easy to see the futility of letting his grief over her death overwhelm him. Jessica's death was still new and fresh, but that didn't change the fact that she was as lost to him as Bess was. And allowing his grief over Jess to overwhelm him was just as futile. It was time to start dealing with the loss and thinking of a life beyond revenge. When they had first arrived at the inn Dean had urged him to keep in touch with Sarah. He might not be ready for that type of step yet, but he was starting to think that some day he would be.

"So, are we ready here or what?" Dean lifted the top off of the box and looked at Sam with his eyebrows raised.

Sam moved to one of the windows and nudged the simple curtain out of the way. The moon had risen while he was eating, and moonlight bathed the cobblestones in front of the tavern, a soft silver glow painted over the night outside. He knew if he was looking from the window of his room, above the tavern, the road that Daniel had traveled so long ago would look like a ribbon of moonlight as it came over the brow of the hill.

_Look for me by the moonlight. I swear I will come back to you by the moonlight…though hell should bar the way._

"Yeah, we're ready." He moved to Dean's side and reached for the box, shaking his head when Dean looked like he wanted to beat him to it. "I think I've got to do it. Daniel promised that _he_ would return it to her." He kept his voice calm and determined, proud that the small hitch in his breathing hadn't been audible to his brother.

The top of the box was too small for him to easily reach inside, especially when his fingers seemed to have developed a slight tremble. He lifted the box and slid the aged red ribbon and tarnished locket onto the palm of his hand. The firelight was kind to both, hiding the marks of age and adding a rosy glow to the ribbon. The locket felt warm against his skin, and he knew that if he let himself see it, it would sparkle in his eyes.

A current of warmth flowed through the air around them and a feather light touch ran across the back of his neck. The air in front of Sam shimmered, misted, and began to take a solid form. Long waves of black hair flowing over delicate shoulders, a simple white shift that only enhanced the beauty of its wearer.

"Bess." The word came out of Sam's mouth on a soft breath and Sam heard a solid thud as Bob dropped heavily onto one of the wooden chairs. Dean's hand began to edge towards the shotgun when Bess lifted her hand towards Sam's face, but Sam gave him a quick look and Dean's hand stilled.

The palm of her hand was warm against his cheek as she smiled up at him. A gentle lift of the corners of her mouth that spoke of affection and thanks more than love and passion. A hush had fallen over the tavern as soon as the locket and ribbon had landed on his palm, but now a slight noise worked its way through the quiet. A faint clatter from the cobblestones outside of the tavern. Bess' smile grew as tears filled her eyes and she turned her head towards the door.

Daniel was there, his tall form taking shape in front of the old wood. He was dressed like he had appeared in the portrait, the velvet coat and lace gone in favor a simple linen shirt that was open at the neck, exposing the strong column of his neck. His hair was a long queue down his back, held in place by a dark ribbon. Dark hazel eyes settled on the woman in front of Sam and centuries of pain and sorrow fell away. Dimples bit deep into his cheeks as a smile lit his face and his eyes softened, the skin around them crinkling with happiness.

"Dear Lord, there's that smile again," Bob whispered, his voice awed.

In the blink of an eye Bess was no longer in front of Sam. She was in Daniel's arms, and the tears on her face almost glowed in the firelight. Daniel's arms tightened around her and the sounds that had just been slightly beyond their hearing began to trickle into the air around them. Soft murmurs, laughter, a fiddle playing a slow ballad.

Daniel began to move, and Bess flowed with him, their steps a formal waltz. The music gained strength, quickening until it was a lively reel, and the dancers were swept up in it. Laughter, stamping feet, clapping hands, accompanied them as they spun gracefully around the floor.

Sam looked at the ribbon and locket still in his hand. Ruby red and sparkling silver, it was time for them to be returned to their owners. He leaned forward and tossed them gently into the heart of the now roaring fire. The ribbon glowed as fire raced along it.

In the center of the tavern the dancers moved more quickly, their feet seemingly lighter as they lost the tethers that were holding them down. Bess leaned back in Daniel's arms, her eyes drinking in his face as they spun around the floor. Daniel gazed down at her with a look that made it clear he was never letting go.

Inside of the locket the two snippets of hair, one black and one brown, began to smoke and curl. There was a brief spark of fire and the two tiny locks were nothing but a dust of mingled ashes inside of the locket, each indistinguishable from the other.

The smile on Daniel's face was filled with a joy that lit the air around him. The music grew fainter, the laughter and applause softer, until once again they hovered where the conscious mind could not hear them. And still the couple twirled, spinning faster as they were bathed in a radiance that seemed to have its source somewhere within them. Bess threw her head back and laughter bubbled from her throat, a soft silver peel that lingered in the air even after the dancers had faded to a soft glow and then dissipated into shimmering whispers of light that winked out, leaving nothing but a memory. The happiness of that laughter warmed the tavern. A warmth that would dwell inside of its old walls for a very long time.

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**A/N **Oh, stop rolling your eyes! I warned you I was a sentimental slob! I've wanted a happy ending for Bess and her highwayman since the first time I heard the song and then read the poem. If you still haven't heard the song I recommend running right over to YouTube (or wherever) and giving it a listen. It's 'The Highwayman' sung by Loreena McKennitt on her _The Book of Secrets_ CD.

While I'm on the subject of music, I had a definite song in mind when Bess and Daniel danced. It's on the Celtic Woman CD, and is called 'The Ashoken Farewell/ The Contradiction'. Give it a listen. I dare you to keep your feet still when the fiddle starts to fly and the crowd starts to clap.

At the end of Hozho's Chap 17 I asked _"__Don't you feel like life should come with a soundtrack?"_

TraSan replied: _"I think life does come with a soundtrack. The trick is being brave enough to dance to it. :)"_

I couldn't agree more.

Thank you so so much for sticking with me while we found the lover's happy ending. I truly hope you enjoyed reading it.

Next up is a rewrite of the story "As the Clock Winds Down". The story was originally posted on the LimpSam site as a contest entry. There was a 5000 word limit and I'm fleshing it out a little before posting here on ffnet. I've already started the revisions so I should be posting it fairly soon.

**A/N 2** I'm all for promoting an event that celebrates our Sammy (and Dean!), so I'm going to repeat my reminder about the SFTCOL(AR)S first annual LimpSam awards:

Like I said at the beginning of chap 18, there are categories for fics, graphics, and vids. We love both brothers—c'mon, the magic of the show is their relationship—but Dean already has such a huge cadre of devoted and passionate 'Dean' fans, so the board is just trying to give lil bro a boost and promote the wonder that is Sammy. But we're definitely 'bi-bro', so there are categories that are Dean heavy also.

If you go to the SFTCOL(AR)S forum, the "Limp!Sam Awards" category is in the **Asylum** section. For some reason I couldn't get the link to post correctly at the start of Chap 18, but if you need it I posted it in my profile.

Nominations are being taken in June, but the top nominees will be posted on the board in July. You should definitely check it out to find stories, graphics, and vids that may have somehow passed you by. What a great way to ease ourselves through summer hiatus!


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